


Resuscitate

by sailaway



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bottom Kylo Ren, Collars, Discipline, Dominant Hux, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics, Pre-Canon, Sexual Tension, Spanking, Submissive Kylo Ren, Top Armitage Hux, everyone is emotionally repressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8245595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailaway/pseuds/sailaway
Summary: Someone needs to bring Kylo Ren in line, and it might as well be Hux. But submission is one thing; surrender is another. And some masks hide more than faces.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

* * *

 

 That which yields is not always weak. – Jacqueline Carey 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“General, there's an incident in progress on E deck I'd like you to... manage.”

Captain Bolla is the very picture of stress, a vein pulsing high in her forehead as she stares, hard and discomfited, just past Hux in the middle of his office. They'd operated well together in the year since Hux was promoted and awarded the _Finalizer_ as his flagship. She's demonstrated the aptitude and stamina to captain the magnificent star destroyer, confident even in crisis, and he's never seen her so rattled.

“It's the Force user, sir. Kylo Ren. He's destroying a communications room.” 

“He's – what? Why?”

Bolla closes her eyes, as if praying to some deity for fortitude. “It would seem Petty Officer Nale was updating him about a frequency he'd told her to monitor and he didn't care for the report.” 

“Have you not sent security?”

“This... isn't the first time.” Something akin to embarrassment passes over her narrow features. “I have of course attempted to deal with this myself, but thought it time to come to you as I know you have Supreme Leader Snoke's ear, as well as a more direct working relationship with Kylo Ren.” 

General Hux is a man of patience. Hard-won, and carefully minded, but patience nonetheless. He expects excellence from his people, as he does from himself, but takes care to treat them with civility and respect, and receives the same in return. Which is why this information completely throws him for a loop.

The gall is shocking, he fumes as he marches through the corridors. Since Leader Snoke foisted his apprentice on him four months ago, Hux has become familiar with Ren's moods – his hair-trigger temper, his contrary attitude, the tendency to sulk – but this is a whole new low. Hux is also learning that tolerating Ren is more reasonably accomplished on their brief sojourns to Starkiller Base than in the tight quarters of even a very large starship. 

The lift delivers him directly in front of communications room D-287. Echoing from it is the screech of metal on metal, a wild electric buzz, and the acrid scent of burning. The corridor is unusually deserted; Ren's antics have driven the crew away from their posts. Intolerable. 

Hux activates the door and as it slides open he takes in the scene; chairs toppled, equipment scattered and smashed, and against the far wall, Kylo Ren, haloed by showers of sparks as he thrashes a charred console with his lightsaber. Hux has noticed the omnipresent hilt at Ren's belt but has never seen such a weapon ignited in person, and is briefly transfixed by its crimson arc through the air as vicious pants rasp from the knight's vocoder. 

“Ren!” His voice is a notch or two louder than it ever rises, so as to be heard over the destruction. “What is the meaning of this?” 

Ren's body language registers surprise, then scorn, his combative posture directed at Hux now as he pivots. 

“Your presence is not required, General.” His speech is labored from behind the helmet.

“You mangle my ship and claim it has nothing to do with me?” In all his years of leadership Hux cannot recall witnessing such a flagrant display of childish rage. He jerks his chin towards the saber's crackling blade. “Put that away. Your conduct is disgraceful and I won't stand for it.” 

“Is that so?” As Ren retracts the lightsaber and clips it to his belt with practiced fluidity he draws himself up, rolling his shoulders. For a moment Hux thinks Ren is about to launch himself at him. 

“You may be Leader Snoke's protégé but as far as I'm concerned you're a guest on this ship.” Ren remains motionless as Hux approaches. Something crunches under his boot, and as he glances down he makes no effort to mask his disgust at the waste of resources. “This is not only grossly unprofessional but embarrassing. How you're not humiliated and ashamed of yourself is beyond me.” 

Ren's physical strength and esoteric abilities alike build him up into an intimidating figure, and only a fool wouldn't be cautious. But what is the man going to do, flat out murder him on the spot? Whatever Ren is, he isn't stupid, and he respects Snoke too much to dispatch his prize general. 

“So yes,” Hux finishes, staring into the inscrutable black of Ren's visor. “That's so.” 

Ren's demeanor undergoes the subtlest of changes, ambiguous but palpable even beneath the trappings of flowing robes and featureless helmet, and a spark of suspicion is kindled in Hux's subconscious. 

He casts a lingering glance of contemptuous disapproval at Ren as he exits, fishing in his pocket for his comm and opening the support staff channel.

“This is General Hux, requesting a repair technician in communications on D deck. And janitorial.”

 

* * *

 

When Hux retires for the evening he hangs up his jacket, pours a modest glass of Corellian brandy, and pulls up the First Order personnel index on his datapad. He gave Kylo Ren's file a cursory once-over when they'd been introduced, but never had the need or interest to delve further. With no official enlistment paperwork or regular evaluations, it's short, with sections left blank more often than not – but the medical records include several entries and he browses idly through. 

Ren's been treated for multiple injuries, which is understandable given his rather hands-on line of work – fractured rib, concussion, burn on the thigh. There are other notes regarding Ren's vitals, height, weight... Hux slows his scrolling then stops entirely when he sees the phrase he's searching for, typed in hasty abbreviations by some medical officer. _Pres. sub._ Presents submissive.

Hux has been far too busy to give any thought to the knight's classification but now that he's looking at it in print, it only confirms the theory he's been mulling all afternoon. Ren's stubborn and aggressive enough to almost hide it, aided by the helmet and asocial tendencies... but one's nature could only be suppressed for so long. It would've been unimportant to Hux, but an unchecked submissive intimidating his crew and damaging his ship needs to be handled. 

Hux sits unmoving for a while, considering, and as he downs the last of his drink he messages Supreme Leader Snoke with a request for a private audience.

 

* * *

 

“Dismissed.”

The officers seated around the long oval table rise up en masse at Hux's word, filtering out of the conference room with murmured words about quotas and unit restructuring and what the officer's mess is serving for lunch. Hux remains in his chair, watching one individual at the end of the pack with an attentive eye. 

“Not you, Ren.” 

Ren pauses, head swiveling. A couple of majors are the last to leave and the door slides smoothly closed behind them, leaving nothing but anticipatory silence and the subdued whir of the ventilation system. 

“Remove your helmet.” This instruction garners no response whatsoever. “I acknowledge the recycled air can be a little stale but I assure you it's breathable.” 

Ren wavers, and Hux is about to repeat the order when Ren lowers his hood and releases the catches on either side of the mask. 

Hux has privately speculated as to whether he's hideously maimed, or even xeno, but the face that's revealed is neither. The helmet is just an affectation. 

Large brown eyes blink self-consciously, brows coming together in a way that's both challenging and defensive. Eyes are the window to the soul, or so they say, and if Hux had seen Ren uncovered before he would've pegged him for a submissive on the spot. His features are unconventional, angular and soft at once, framed by a striking mane of glossy dark curls. There's an insolent set to his jaw, his broad shoulders tense, and although Hux knows from the file that Ren is twenty-seven, four years younger than himself, he comes across as far more youthful.

“Yesterday's occurrence – one of several prior incidents, so I've been informed – was unacceptable. You don't need to be told this.” 

Ren adopts a disdainful air. Hux ignores it, standing and shutting off the holo console he'd used earlier to project star charts. “If you're to operate in the First Order you will complete the self-care that is essential for optimum functioning. This is required for officers, enlisted, and stormtroopers alike, and you're no exception.” 

Wariness settles over Ren's face, and before he can protest Hux continues, “Correct me if I'm wrong, but I suspect you haven't been disciplined lately.”

Ren blanches, handily confirming Hux's hypothesis. “The only reason this violation has gone unnoticed is because you have no technical rank in the Order,” Hux explains. “You may rectify this with a willing dom of your choice, or via the discipline center.” 

A muscle in Ren's cheek twitches and his eyes blaze to life. “As you said, I'm not in the official chain of command.” His unaltered voice is dark-timbred and throaty, but almost sensitive without the menace his vocoder lends him. “You have no authority over me. I'll be no one's sub.” 

“Is that so?” Hux repeats Kylo's earlier words back at him. “I discussed this with Leader Snoke and have explicit permission to enforce it. This is required not just for maximum efficiency but for your own health and wellness and he, at least, has the sense to see that.” 

Ren's insouciance falters, his full lips parting. “You insult me,” he growls as he stalks to the exit.

Hux steps sideways and raises his hand to Ren's chest. His touch is mild, no more than the brush of palm against the coarse fabric of Ren's robes, but it stops him like a force field.

“Listen to me, Ren.” Hux uses a tone he knows to be unavoidably compelling, and there's a twinge of satisfaction at the knight's visible reaction to it. “I can't control what you do on a mission, but while on this ship you're under my jurisdiction when it comes to this matter. I expect you to report to the discipline center a minimum of once every two weeks. Understood?” 

Ren's rather full lashes are fluttering now, gloved fingers tightening on the rim of his helmet. Hux withdraws his hand, tugging his uniform smooth and fixing Ren with an acute, expectant stare. “Is that _understood?_ ”

Ren nods very, very slowly.

 

* * *

 

Kylo paces. Though it's more meandering in a straight line, even but aimless. His strides are long, and the two linked chambers of his living quarters are small; twelve steps carry him from the main door, through his sleeping room and past the 'fresher, to the the far wall of his meditation chamber. Back and forth. His robes sway around his calves and his boots leave matte imprints on the floor, polished to a mirror's shine by the daily service droid.

His every molecule simmers with resentment, unfairness the sourest aftertaste in his mouth. The concept of reporting to the discipline center to submit to some stranger, the idea that his emotional state needs stabilizing, is both laughable and anathema. He hasn't been topped for... he can't recall how long. Of course, those occasional frivolous encounters were far different than the sort of regular routine General Hux is proposing. 

Kylo is his own man. Servility does not become him. He answers to none but Leader Snoke. 

Bold of Hux to think First Order rules or the stripes on his sleeve should have any bearing on Kylo's doings. And crafty indeed, to go behind Kylo's back to take it up with Snoke. Yet despite this indignation at Hux's interference, it would be a biological impossibility to deny the effect he'd had on Kylo in the communications room. Until now the general had, overall, made an effort towards mutual respect and cordiality, one that had served them both well; but the moment he'd turned that dom voice on him, Kylo's bones had gone spongy. 

An inconvenience, that's all. One that, with Leader Snoke's backing, Kylo would have no choice but to heed. 

No matter. Inconveniences are temporary, and can be endured. And after it was over and done with, he would give this inconvenience no more power over him.

 

* * *

 

Hux takes the liberty of scheduling an appointment for Ren at the discipline center but before the fortnight is out, he receives another hesitant complaint about his behavior. Nothing so severe as the incident in the comms room, but it paints an overarching pattern of aggression and intimidation. Any threat to his crew or disruption with the running of the ship must be dealt with. 

Hux fires off an immediate message to the discipline center, followed by one to Ren. _You're due at the center. Report within the hour._

The response pops up seconds later. _My appointment isn't for another two days._

 _I changed it. That's an order._

There's no reply, and Hux takes this as acquiescence and returns to his paperwork, ensconcing himself once again in a series of requisition forms until his comm buzzes. It's the center. 

“General, sir. Kylo Ren's here but he won't submit to his treatment.”

Hux pinches the bridge of his nose. “Call for security. I'll be there shortly.”

“Security, sir?”

“I assume he's destroying something.”

“Not at all. He's... just sitting there.” 

The _Finalizer_ has a population of 82,000 and the facilities to match. Gyms, canteens, lounges, rec areas, all come in multiples to accommodate the vast crew. The Discipline, Sexuality, and Behavior Management Center, known colloquially as “the center” since DSBMC is unusable in conversation, is appropriately sprawling, occupying a three level block just aft of the sick-bay. The uppermost level is the officers' section and it's there Hux heads, eyes glued to his pad so as not to fall behind on work while dealing with this latest interruption. 

He's greeted in soft tones by an attendant with a dainty choke-chain peeking out from the neck of her uniform. First Order dress standards permit collars for any personnel, so long as they meet certain criteria: black, gray, red, white, or metallic in appearance, not to exceed one inch above the uniform neck, not to impede tasks or any physical activity, no leashes while on duty.

“We haven't seen you in a while, General. May I prepare you a room? Lieutenant Abwa is about to enter room nine, I can alert her if you like.” 

Hux has played with the petite sub before, and the thought is appealing, but duty calls. “I'm here for Kylo Ren.” 

“Oh, I apologize, we hadn't realized you would be involved – ”

“I'm not,” Hux is quick to correct her. “I'm only here to ensure he fulfills his appointment.”

This is one of the few areas aboard that's carpeted, and the thick, spotless white pile muffles his boots as he heads past the playroom doors and down the long hall to the locker room. The center is as sleek and well-designed as the rest of the ship but the surroundings are comfortable, the warm lights inviting, the ambiance more that of an exclusive lounge or ritzy brothel than a military facility. 

The locker room is spa-like, immaculate, and empty. Kylo does have a habit of clearing a space out. Hux isn't prone to swearing, but a choice word or two slips free when he spots the nuisance himself brooding on a bench against the far wall. His forearms are braced on his thighs and he wears black athletic clothes and a mutinous scowl. 

“According to the schedule a Captain Josef Taan is the dom assigned to you today,” Hux queries, one boot squeaking on the tile as he draws closer. The room carries a trace of humidity from the showers, and a tasteful herbal fragrance. “Where is he?”

“I sent him away.” 

“You don't get to send your dom away.”

“He's not my anything.” 

In two strides Hux is between Ren's knees, grasping his chin between thumb and forefinger and turning his startled face up. 

“You've been very difficult lately. Do you know why that is? Because you can't manage your temper. Do you know why _that_ is? Because nobody is managing you.” Hux voice's is low and arresting. Ren's eyes are shiny from the overhead lights. 

“That's what I'd call a brat, Ren,” Hux pushes on. There's more he could say, a veritable stream of accurate chastisements, but there's something unexpected flickering in that impudent expression; brittle, bruised, the defensive aggression of a cornered dog, and instead of spurring him on it gives him pause. Hux releases him and Ren averts his gaze, the crown of his tousled head brushing Hux's thigh.

“This is not something I need,” he states forcefully, more to himself than to Hux. 

“You're smart enough to know that's not true,” he rejoinders, adjusting his tone to reflect patience instead of exasperation. “Or do you have another way you plan to regulate yourself?”

“No,” Ren breathes, a tinge of familiar animosity sneaking into it.

“No, what?”

“No, _sir._ ” It spills out smooth as silk, like it was waiting on the tip of his tongue, and Hux catches himself imagining those plush lips forming the words, hidden now beneath the tumble of his curls.

“If you won't submit here today, I'll – I'll have to dom you myself.” The threat is born of frustration but it invokes a sudden heaviness, a density to the air. Ren jerks his head up, and his face undergoes several shifts in such quick succession Hux can't pin down the exact reaction. He has no poker face whatsoever; no wonder he wears a mask. 

“Fine,” Ren spits out. 

Now it's Hux's turn to blink. “Indeed.” He compresses his lips as he processes this development. “Then I expect you in my quarters at 2100 hours. Go about your business.” 

Hux moves on autopilot, uncharacteristically lost in thought, as he returns to his office. He hadn't truly meant the offer, and Ren's defiant acceptance wasn't the expected outcome. Hux hasn't taken a sub in a long while – these days he's running short on the time and energy one needs to devote to that kind of relationship. The weight of his rank and command, along with an occasional visit to the center squeezed into his schedule, is enough to satisfy him. 

He wouldn't be actually taking Ren as his sub, of course – just a session or two, a necessary intervention that would do Ren and everyone around him some good. 

The thought of topping Kylo Ren is surreal, but he can't deny the rush of gratification at the visual of bringing the proud, reckless knight to heel. Fitting adjectives, and yet... despite Ren's defiance there had shone from him, like a glimpse of sun through clouds, a deep vulnerability that caught Hux off guard, braced as he'd been for another tantrum, another swath of destruction.

He isn't a cruel dom, but he's not a lenient one, either. Ren deserves the discipline Hux will mete out, but he has a suspicion Ren might need a lighter hand. One way to find out.

 

* * *

 

Kylo isn't prone to nerves. He tells himself the clammy palms and flushed skin are a result of displeasure, but the lie rings false even in the privacy of his own head. 

It's 20:40.

He sets aside his helmet, cowl, and surcoat, and fidgets in his bunk in only his ribbed tunic and trousers. He fiddles with his lightsaber hilt, levitating it and turning it end over end before him, before snatching it out of the air and slamming it with a thud on his nightstand.

20:43. 

He should have gone to one of his Knights with this issue. Several are doms and would've been glad to engage him as required; one did so several times before her downfall in battle with an old Jedi she was hunting. Kylo had tracked down and dispatched said Jedi with great relish. 

20:47.

Does it have to be Hux? Too late for that question. Kylo doesn't doubt his disciplinary abilities – on the contrary, he's sure Hux is more than skilled in that department. Nor does he find the general unappealing. He's sidetracked by a mental review of Hux's direct green eyes, the elegant cut of his cheekbones, the copper gleam of his hair – he can't pretend he's never noticed, never thought about it – but their working partnership had always been just that, and only that. 

Another question: does he trust General Hux? They might trade barbs on the bridge or disagree over how best to carry out Leader Snoke's directions but in _this,_ does he trust him? 

He considers Hux as he'd been in the locker room. Kylo had expected him to bully him into his session. Instead he'd put a lid on his anger; frustrated, but in control of it. Almost... considerate. For some reason he hadn't thought the general capable of that kind of perception. 

20:53.

Kylo's quarters are near the special forces barracks, and as it takes him eight minutes to reach the bridge, he calculates he'll need roughly six to reach the senior command habitation level just adjacent. He doesn't imagine for a second that Hux appreciates tardiness. 

He adopts his usual stalk through the corridors, thoughts formless and inflamed. Upon arrival at his destination he announces himself via the access pad, and after electronic confirmation from the room's occupant it flashes “authorized” and the door slides open.

As befits his rank Hux's suite is spacious, but not extravagantly so, more or less equivalent in square footage to Kylo's own rooms but with a different floor plan. There's a front room with a desk – Hux is behind it, watching with patient interest – and shelving units, along with a glass coffee table framed by a low, minimalist sectional couch. Through a wide open archway is the sleeping alcove, the bed as crisply made as if the sheets were painted on. 

“Sit,” Hux says, very graciously, but with the natural manner of someone who expects obedience. A noteworthy trait, Kylo concedes as he takes the chair across the desk. Hux is not that insufferable breed of obnoxious, showy doms who laud their status; Kylo wouldn't be here if he was. 

“You were upset today.” Hux shuts his pad off and sets it aside, linking his hands loosely in his lap. Kylo's never seen them ungloved before. “At the center.” 

“Why didn't you arrange to meet me there?” Kylo challenges, sidestepping the remark. Even a general's quarters have no room for the vast variety of equipment available at the center. He hasn't thought about that either way, but it's a far more preferable subject than his _feelings._

“The center has its uses,” Hux opines, after a thoughtful pause, “but I usually prefer a more organic approach. Would you like me to show you?” 

It's framed as a question, but it sounds more like _let me._ And Kylo doesn't have an answer. 

“Bend over the desk, Ren.” 

It seems Kylo has an answer after all because without having decided whether or not to obey, he does, rising and bracing his palms flat on the desk. He watches from the corner of his eye as Hux stands and crosses behind him. Beneath his sleeves, the fine hairs on Kylo's arms rise.

Without warning Hux knocks his feet apart with his own, forcing his torso forward onto the desk. The air leaves Kylo in a hoarse rush. Hux cards his hand through his hair and Kylo can't hold back the involuntary frisson; envisioning the curls slipping over the slim knuckles, the subtle pressure dipping into his nape. Hux's fingers spread out around his neck and tighten experimentally. 

“You could stop me in a moment, couldn't you?” Kylo shivers at Hux's clear tenor behind him. The chair is pushed aside with an ominous scrape on the floor, and Hux's thighs brush against the backs of his own. “We're alike of height but you're much more solid than I am. And of course there's those abilities of yours to consider. But you won't resist.” 

Hux's hand slides purposefully down his spine, skimming into the hollow of his lower back, and Kylo's fingertips go white against the desk when Hux unfastens his trousers. He doesn't reach in, no; instead he hooks both thumbs into Kylo's waistband and tugs, exposing his buttocks to the cool air. 

“Unfortunately you've been rather difficult, Ren.” Hux's voice takes on a harder edge, hands ghosting over the muscular globes of Kylo's ass. “I'm sure on some level in that mind of yours you know it's unacceptable behavior. Don't you?” 

The desire to tell him off is lurking in Kylo somewhere, but instead his body chooses to respond with a thick “mm-hmm.”

“I didn't catch that.” 

“Yes, sir. It is. It is unacceptable.” 

“And unacceptable behavior shouldn't go unpunished.” 

The bare-handed spank hurts more than Kylo expected, and despite having steeled for it he lets out a yelp. Hux's lean frame is apparently capable of delivering more force than it appears. Yet as Kylo's face stains with heat it's not from the physical sensation. 

“Do you want to be punished, Ren?”

“Y-yes.” It's not a lie. He couldn't lie, not now. 

In his head he counts fifteen spanks, a wince to mark each one, before Hux stops – Kylo's surprised at the brevity of the discipline but as he starts to straighten, a firm palm on his back stops him.

“You'll know when we're finished.” 

Kylo doesn't dare peek as he strains to track the footsteps, the slide of drawer opening on the other side of the room. A hand settles on his hip again, just shy of a caress, before the unmistakable blow of a paddle strikes his bare ass. A choke sticks in his throat, hard and soundless. Hux is an experienced user, that much is plain – from the judicious placement of each strike to the regular, controlled rhythm. Kylo grits his teeth but his fingers creep to the opposite edge of the desk, seeking purchase. He's hyper-aware of the sweat on his temples, the trembling of his muscles, Hux's breathing; he swears he can almost hear the general's heartbeat. 

His pain tolerance is high, and he's weathered far worse in his life than a paddling, but pain isn't why his eyes prickle with tears – it's the moans he can no longer hold back, the total blanking of his thoughts as his brain zeroes in on the shock of each blow, his consciousness ironed out into white noise; into nothing. There's only the hurt, and the surrender. Only Hux. 

He's grateful he hasn't been told to keep count because he's lost track by now. His knees start to wobble, his forehead falls forward onto the desk's cool surface – then it all stops, and an arm slides neatly around his waist. He shudders, gulping and flinching as Hux pulls his trousers up over his burning ass. 

“Come lie down.” With a hand on Kylo's lower back Hux guides him to his bed. Kylo lowers himself down shakily and curls up on his side; the linens smell fresh and clean and vaguely of citrus. He peeps out through wet, lowered lashes as Hux moves out of sight. He hears the drawer again, then the sound of the 'fresher door and the running tap. 

“Drink.” Hux returns with a glass of water and stands with his hands behind his back, weight canted to one side, as Kylo downs it greedily. “Take a few minutes before you return to your quarters. When you do, I expect you to use the bacta spray in your under-sink med kit, although you probably won't need it. Understood?” 

Hux accepts Kylo's wordless nod with one of his own. His fingertips are so cool as he pushes Kylo's sweaty hair out of his eyes, with the idle, abstract motions of of one arranging a vase of flowers. When he's satisfied he returns to the front room, and Kylo watches with unconcealed fascination as he settles himself at his desk, looking for all the world like he hadn't just been paddling someone's bare ass. 

When Kylo leaves, Hux offers him a cordial “good night” over the top of his datapad. Kylo matches his tone as he repeats the words back to him. 

In his own bunk (smaller than Hux's, it occurs to him,) and naked save for the bacta and bruises, exhaustion filters through him; a warm, all-encompassing mist. It's unfamiliar, this coziness in his own brain, but not unpleasant. No, not at all. As he sinks into sleep he does so, for once, at peace.

 

 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

 

Ren appropriates a mid-range shuttle to a nearby system in search of some artifact, meaning the knight is out of Hux's way for the five days his business, whatever it is, requires. There's a problem with the reactor core, minor but enough to hinder the ship's speed, and Hux is so wrapped up with this and a potential treaty with a promising planet in the Seswenna Sector that he almost forgets about Kylo's two week rule until the time is up. 

_Your two weeks are complete,_ he messages in between meetings. _Please make prompt arrangements with the center._

Twenty minutes later, his comm chirps from his side pocket. _Unnecessary. I'm fine._

_Let's take proactive steps to keep it that way. Make an appointment._

Halfway across the ship in the D deck gym, Kylo bench presses with his comm on his chest, vibrating with each unwanted message. He finishes his set and reads the last one with a scowl. 

His session with Hux hadn't been objectionable. No, that's not entirely true: it had been exceptional, a fact that only truly settled in the morning after. A foolish and extravagant word; and yet. Hux's finesse was remarkable, the results of the paddling not severe enough to cripple him but enough to sting pointedly when Kylo sat. A reminder, to check himself when his temper began to foam up past the point of controlling it. That's a part truth, too: it's also a reminder of the general, his marks on Kylo, secret and delicious and lingering beneath his clothes. 

But. That had been that, and Hux's interference is no longer required.

 _Your interest in my well-being is commendable but unneeded,_ he settles on responding. _I will arrange a session outside the center, with someone of my choice._

It's not a lie, he assures himself as he resumes his sets, ignoring the pair of uneasy lieutenants sidling past to the treadmills. Merely a... deferment. Maybe he would set something up. Maybe he wouldn't. He'd decide later.

 

* * *

 

Hux doesn't contact Ren again. He's occupied with his own affairs – this tentative alliance with the Seswenna Sector planet, Sadni, demands careful handling – and he has no reason to assume Kylo wouldn't be minding regulation. When subs neglect their needs, nine times out of ten, a solid disciplining is all it takes to set them straight and remind them how much better one feels with proper self-care. 

A brief rundown of any notable occurrences is standard during all shift changes, but as he arrives on the bridge one morning ready to accept the report he's ambushed instead by a discouraged-looking lieutenant.

“Sir, there's a problem in the special forces gym.” 

A tickle of dread settles in his stomach. “If you tell me it's Kylo Ren – ” 

The lieutenant's helpless shrug says it all. 

Apparently Kylo Ren is the one out of ten.

Hux arrives at the gym to find Ren in the center of it performing his katas, barefoot in a sleeveless top and leggings. The lights are dimmed and his lightsaber is a spinning blur of crimson, hissing and humming as it slices through the air. A small combat remote droid hovers near, shooting harmless but unpredictable bolts in Kylo's direction. He blocks each with ease, without so much as interrupting the pattern of his exercises. Hux could have admired the symmetry and grace of the movements had the situation been different. 

“You can't do that here,” he interjects when he catches Ren's attention.

“Why not?” 

“It intimidates others who may want to exercise.”

“That's hardly – my problem,” Ren announces, punctuating the statement with a swift twirl and slash through the air. The saber crackles like it's on the verge of shorting out. 

“This isn't your private gym,” Hux reiterates. His patience is running thin but it's still more than Kylo deserves. “You can't swing that thing about like you are and not have people worry you're going to take their heads off. You'll need to reserve one of the smaller sparring gyms.”

Ren doesn't deign to respond, so Hux approaches until he's forced to alter his movement patterns to avoid hitting him, bouncing back on the balls of his feet.

“When was the last time you did a session?” Hux doesn't have to specify what he means.

Ren retracts his saber and tosses damp hair out of his face, switching the combat remote off with a flick of his fingers. “All is satisfactory in that department.” 

“You made arrangements with someone you know, yes?”

“Yes.”

“One of your Knights was aboard recently. Perhaps it was them?”

“Yes.”

“That's interesting.” Hux can smell the ozone wafting from Ren's lightsaber hilt, caustic and scorched. “Surely you haven't forgotten that Leader Snoke approved my supervision of this matter, and thus was more than amenable when I asked him to confirm with your Knights you've been undergoing regular sessions.”

Ren swallows. 

“I don't need to tell you what he reported back to me, Ren.” 

“This is none of your _concern,_ ” Ren exclaims in a burst of defiance, the last word more snarl than speech. His hand flexes around the saber hilt and were it not for the flare of unhappiness in his eyes, Hux would commiserate with the crew's trepidation very well indeed.

“You make it my concern when you behave as you do.” 

Ren shifts from one foot to the other as Hux steps closer, but doesn't draw back to maintain any distance between them. His generously muscled arms are sheened with sweat, the veins on the backs of his hands standing out in relief. 

“Why do you protest this?” Hux challenges. “Why take such offense at your own submission? You did not seem displeased after I disciplined you.” 

A tiny bead of perspiration rolls down Ren's clavicle and his cheeks, already flushed from exertion, deepen in hue. He averts his gaze, jaw working, his non-answer saying a thousand words.

“Get your boots,” Hux commands. “We're going to the center. Now.” 

En route, Kylo maintains a half-step distance behind him – intentional or not, the effect is satisfying – and when Hux enters the facility the attendant snaps to attention behind the front desk. 

“Give us a room,” Hux instructs, and with a bob of her head she hustles to open one to their right labeled with a small, silver 3. 

The octagonal room is tastefully lit with hidden ceiling lights, the wall paneling and carpet the same shade of pearly white. Such comfort only serves to accent the stark steel of the pieces of furniture – cage, bench, stocks, X-frame – spaced around the room's perimeter. A large display case on the wall is filled with rows of whips, floggers, and canes in abundant diversity. Many of them even Hux has never used.

“You,” Hux states without looking at him. “Kneel.” 

As Kylo does so, going down first on one knee than the other, his body language is surly but his eyes hide nothing. Hux crosses the room and rummages through the chest of narrow drawers, not looking for anything in particular but instead making a show of perusing the neatly organized contents.

“Always a solid choice,” he suggests sotto voce, referring to nothing at all but filling his voice with promise.

He takes his time moving around the room in thoughtful contemplation of the many toys and apparatus available to him – he knows the anticipation is torture. Kylo remains very still, aside from his attentive eyes and the tense, earnest furrow of his forehead. 

There's a sudden but indistinct pressure just behind Hux's brow – he pauses in his circuit and turns on his heel, attention fixing on Kylo.

“You know I can feel it when you do that.” 

Kylo doesn't contradict him but surprise registers on his upturned face. No subtlety at all. 

“Oh, you thought you were being sneaky? You've prodded around before, once or twice. Curious about what's going on in my head? It's normally considered polite to ask. I have no qualms telling you, if you want to know so badly.”

Hux removes his jacket with painstaking slowness and hangs it on the row of hooks near the door. Underneath is a regulation t-shirt, snug and white with a small First Order insignia. He stretches his shoulders as he slips off his suspenders, letting them swing down around the flare of his trousers. 

“What I'd like to do is beat you into oblivion, but what I inflicted on you last time clearly didn't leave an impression.” He's left his gloves on, Kylo observes, watching those long, leather-clad fingers flex. He's slimmer altogether without the jacket, his body lithe but well-trained, his bright hair the only color against the room's monochrome décor. 

“Perhaps you'd respond better to a different technique.” Remarkable, how level his voice is, yet ever with that base note of authority. “Perhaps I'll just whip you anyway because I'll enjoy it.” He speaks just as he does to junior officers and subordinates, and this sends a curious little thrill through Kylo. 

“Or I might like to see what that mouth can do. Which reminds me; speaking will not be necessary unless I say otherwise. Now stand and undress for me.” 

Kylo tugs his shirt over his head as he rises, aware of Hux's keen gaze scanning his still-sweaty torso. He hesitates at his waistband, but shrugs away the anxiety and kicks off his boots and leggings, tossing his clothes aside. Temperature control is set higher than the rest of the ship and he stands comfortably naked in the center of the room – physically comfortable, at least. It takes near superhuman exertion to resist peeking into Hux's mind, guilt threading his need to know what Hux thinks of him, bare and on display. 

“You need to stop fighting, Ren,” Hux concludes aloud, as if he'd been thinking the matter over as Kylo disrobed. He makes it sound so very sensible. His expression offers no insight into his opinion as he takes in Kylo's nudity. “Not everything is a battle.” 

His voice is no-nonsense but – in spite of it or because of it, Kylo can't say – almost reassuring. He can already feel himself smoothly slipping into submission, as into clear, still waters; it comes so naturally when he doesn't fight it. Hux knows what he's doing, Kylo will grant him that.

Hux executes a 90 degree turn and strides over to a suspension bar hanging from the ceiling, examining it critically before making adjustments to its height. The chains jingle as he gives the bar a solid shake. Once he deems it secure, Hux gestures him over. 

“Give me your hands.” 

Kylo offers them, palm up, eyes on Hux as he buckles Kylo's wrists into the thick, padded cuffs at each end of the bar. His expression is thoughtful yet all-business, and Kylo's body reacts to this with a violent throb of arousal. As Hux raises the bar Kylo's splayed arms are hoisted in the air; the bulk of his weight remains on his feet but his lung capacity is a degree or two shallower, body stretched and chest thrust forward.

“If you need to stop, you may let me know – ” Hux taps his temple with two fingers. “Otherwise you are forbidden from using the Force in any capacity.”

Kylo's stomach churns as Hux rifles through the drawer again, and returns with a glistening black ball gag and a blindfold. He puts them on Kylo without any preamble and Kylo's sensory awareness ramps into overdrive as his vision goes offline. There's a strange metallic tinkle, and he hisses as first one nipple than the other is clamped, with what feels like a thin chain tickling his pectorals. 

Kylo's muscles tense in anticipation as he waits, the seconds ticking by like hands on an old-fashioned chrono. His nipples are already sore but the gag is at least manageable, heavy but small and smooth on his tongue. The blindfold is snug, the fabric thick and velvety, and he listens carefully as Hux moves around the room, then around him; there's a swishing through the air, and he racks his brain and identifies it as a crop mere seconds before it swats against his ribs. 

It's only a sting, but he jumps anyway. He shivers at the sensation of the suede tip against the hollow at the base of his neck, pushing hard against his windpipe, then retracting just before he's forced to cough. The crop teases another flinch out of him as it toys with the nipple chain, its path taking it down past his navel and along the length of his cock, drawing a rush of blood into it. 

A quick scuff of boots on the floor and the crop is brought down hard on his ass, three times, no quarter, and he grunts into the gag. The fourth strike is aligned across the sensitive backs of his thighs, and he jerks forward, shoulders straining at the sockets. 

There's only silence and breathing as he waits on edge for the next strike – he groans again as it licks the small of the back, then another pause, then behind his knees, the joints trembling. The crop is stiff, it's not one of those whippy ones – but the pain isn't unbearable, Hux is holding back – it's the apprehension, the delay, the zip of adrenaline with each unexpected lash – 

Oh, now it hurts. Hux is getting into it. The stripes burn across Kylo's exposed skin, no regularity to the application; he can't catch a full breath between each one. His back is arched thanks to the bar and Hux pays special homage to the dip at the base of his spine, laying on lash after searing lash – 

A gloved hand grips one of Kylo's hips from behind, rubbing hard over the jut of bone, and Kylo gasps at the reprieve, tilting into it. To his surprise the general indulges him, taking his half-hard cock in his leather grasp, but only for a few tantalizing moments before releasing him. 

“Will you show me what that mouth can do?” The question is murmured beguilingly into his ear, and Kylo nods emphatically.

“I think you know what I want, Ren.”

Kylo's lips work around the gag, expectant, ready to be lowered from the bar, to please – 

“I want an apology,” Hux dictates, hushed boot steps crossing back around in front of Kylo. “And I want you to mean it. Don't try to speak yet. Wait until you're sure you're sincere.” 

That's hardly what Kylo expected, but he's unable to dwell on it, shivering as a hand deftly encases his balls. The tip of the crop ghosts over the indentation in his sac, pressing enough to make him inhale sharply. 

“Think about how you've inconvenienced me.” Hux's voice is low and silky and his grip tightens almost to the point of pain. “Imagine what I want to _do_ to you. Take you apart, Ren.” 

Kylo's breath hitches at even the threat of it. Hux's hand slides up to his shaft, gloved thumb rubbing over the frenulum and a dozen sounds swell in Kylo's throat, head falling forward as he cants his hips. His touch is so light Kylo feels taunted by it, needing _more,_ needing _harder;_ needing whatever the general sees fit. 

As if in punishment for these greedy and silent longings, Hux's touch is abruptly removed. The effect is that of the oxygen being sucked from an airlock. 

Kylo can hear receding footfalls, the rustle of fabric, a click; he concentrates until the scent of smoke drifts his way. He recognizes the leaf Hux brought back from shore leave a couple months ago. Hux had purchased it at a luxury shop near the planet's fashion district. He isn't sure how or why he knows this detail. 

He doesn't need the Force to sense he's being watched, or to see himself as Hux does, drawn up and all but hanging, cock needy and mouth red around the gag. The walls are soundproofed and the silence stretches out, pressing on his eardrums. There's a faint creak of leather and springs, which can only be the couch near the door. 

Hux is just sitting there. Looking. 

Time becomes an empty, useless measurement. Meditation is all but impossible with his senses so heightened and acute. His shoulders ache, there are tremors in his arms, and in his vulnerability every cell in him strains against its proper place towards Hux. Kylo craves his proximity, the authority of his touch; it's a chemical reaction, for a submissive to respond so to a dominant, but the general's unique effect on him only heightens it to a knife point.

Footsteps, at last. He perks up in expectation, pulse quickening, only to get a face full of smoke. The scent is sweet and tart but the unexpected plume makes him sputter, eyes watering beneath the blindfold. Hux plucks the gag out so he can cough properly, letting it hang slippery and wet against his neck. He traces Kylo's bottom lip with his thumb – bare now – and Kylo unthinkingly draws the pad of it into his mouth. Hux allows it, letting Kylo set his teeth gently between the knuckles, and Kylo all but keens as Hux's free fingers caress his jaw. 

“I can tell,” comes Hux's voice, in that tone that makes Kylo shiver on a molecular level, “That deep down, you want to be a very good boy.” 

“Uh huh,” Kylo whimpers around Hux's thumb. Hux presses down hard on his eager, repentant tongue. 

“Are you ready to apologize to me, Ren?” His words are calm but gritted, and Kylo envisions the cigarra held between his lips. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sir,” Kylo mumbles as best he can through his full mouth. He gasps as Hux grips his cock again, barehanded and agonizingly slow, in sync with the subtle stroke of his thumb in Kylo's mouth. 

“I think,” Hux continues. “That you could be very good if you wanted to. Can you do that for me, Ren?” 

Kylo moans, sagging in his restraints, rendered weak with desire; he pants, thrusting erratic and impatient into that steady hand. Hux's shirt whispers against Kylo's chest as he breathes, smoky and warm, against Kylo's beating jugular. Kylo visualizes that mouth, compressed around the cigarra, parting a little to exhale, and in that suspended moment he would've died a hundred deaths to be permitted to kiss the general. 

Hux's caress is magnetic even as he reclaims both hands, leaving a thin trail of saliva to trickle down Kylo's chin. Kylo slumps with the cold absence of touch, blindly seeking him again, the bones of his hands constricted as he tugs against the cuffs. 

“Behave yourself,” Hux instructs against his cheek, soft but compelling. “Two weeks. Behave, and return to me, and maybe I'll let you come.”

In the cuffs, Kylo makes fists of frustration and denial. Perhaps lust is fogging his memory but he can't recall anyone having done this to him before, and he whines with the unfairness of it. 

“You're not to touch yourself until then. Am I understood?”

“Y-yeah,” he mutters, panting even as he acquiesces. Hux makes a low sound of satisfaction in his throat and draws his damp fingers one last time over Kylo's wanting mouth. “Remain here for ten minutes or so, then you may free yourself. I assume you can.” 

Kylo slumps in the cuffs, breathing hard, and as he's forced to listen to Hux dress he tastes his own pre-come on his lips.

 

* * *

 

It's with conflicted feelings that Hux dresses and leaves the center. Satisfaction at having reduced the powerful knight to a quivering mess... anticipation of the upcoming two weeks and the little exercise he's given Ren... but there are also his own physical needs, refusing to be ignored. He's certainly not immune to a lusty sub strung up and panting for him. It took every scrap of self-control to focus on Ren's discipline and not to take advantage of those plush, slick lips, or that gorgeous body. How desperate Ren's apology, how lovely his form, restrained for Hux to tease and admire. But the greater pleasure will come with the waiting. Yes, he could've gotten them both off, but that's hardly the point, is it? 

Patience is a virtue.

 

* * *

 

Hux instructed Kylo not to pleasure himself, but didn't specify that nobody else could. 

That's only a loophole, Kylo knows, skirting the law Hux had laid down. But as he lies awake and sweating in bed, heart drumming and hands knotted in the sheets, ignoring the option is beyond his self control. 

It wouldn't even have to be a full session. Just a quick encounter with some random, a release – 

But Kylo can already feel the burn of shame and disappointment he would endure having to tell Hux he failed. Mere days after being given the command, no less. 

And it wouldn't be enough. Anyone can fuck him, whip him, jerk him off. Only Hux – 

He launches himself upright with unnecessary force and stalks to the 'fresher, flinging on the tap and thrusting his wrists into the cold stream, willing ice into his blood. 

Would he were a dominant, he ruminates, scowling at his dour reflection. Or at least a switch. How would that even feel? Simpler, he's convinced. It has always seemed a weakness to indulge this inherent part of his structure; a flaw, a vice to be resisted, a guilty pleasure to indulge when his body demands it. Such an overwhelming tangle of need and instinct is unbecoming of someone of his power and capacity.

He examines it further, the notion of being on equal footing with Hux. Professionally, he already is; despite their differing skill set they are matched in worth and rank (although the general might disagree with the latter – Kylo allows himself a smirk of amusement.) Despite the many capable dominants he's encountered throughout his life, none ever had such a dramatic effect on him. 

How would it feel to meet Hux eye to eye and not have that submissive part of him succumb under the weight of his stare? If Hux was just another person instead of someone with the effortless ability to melt him to the marrow? 

Before now he'd viewed Hux as just a co-commander, not a dominant. If this was in large part due to Kylo's speed and determination in razing any glimmerings of anything more, so what? Their dealings were terse and efficient, Kylo was often absent, and Hux had never had occasion to wield his dominance in their professional dealings – but that day in the communications room, his discovery of Kylo's classification, had been fuel on kindling. 

Something raw and hot licks at his insides again, and Kylo splashes handful after handful of water on his face, holding his breath until his lungs are ready to burst.

 

* * *

 

Hux is in an excellent mood. Sadni is amenable to their terms and the draft of the preliminary treaty has been drawn up by First Order advisers, and he's checking it line by line with Lieutenant Mitaka to ensure there are no errors or omissions. 

“Restoration of derelict mines will be overseen by First Order approved architects and engineers,” Mitaka reads, as Hux follows along on his copy with his stylus. The planet is rich in ore and minerals that, due to Sadni's financial instability, have been left untapped for decades. Its acquisition would be a great coup. “Upon initiation of mining operations, a garrison of stormtroopers will be allocated...”

Mitaka trails off, and Hux lifts his head in question. The cause is a familiar helmeted form filling the doorway of his office. 

“A word, general.” 

“Yes, of course,” Hux says distractedly as he tries to find his place again in the document.

“In private.” 

Hux and Mitaka exchange glances, and at a nod from the former the latter gathers his things and makes a hurried exit. 

As the double doors slide closed, Hux gestures to his own face and Ren removes the helmet, settling it on one hip. His expression is a strained combination of petulance and nerves and Hux schools his own exterior into attentive neutrality as he waits. 

“Our next session. We can bring it forward,” Ren begins in that sparse, awkward way of his. “If your schedule allows.” 

“Why?” Hux lets the single word hang.

Ren dips his head a fraction, his frame all but vibrating with tension. “We have unfinished business.” 

“I don't understand.” Hux understands perfectly. And Ren knows it; frustration flashes across those uneven features, grasp tightening on his helmet. Hux raises a brow, prompting him into honesty. Ren looks down his long nose at him, as if putting on airs will shield him from this blow to his pride. 

When he speaks, it's in a barely audible mutter. “I need you to let me come.” 

“I appreciate your candor,” Hux responds kindly, “And that you came to me.” The confession, just shy of a plea, must have been a challenge. Ren's dark eyes are all but brimming over with want. “But until the two weeks are up my answer will remain no.” 

“Then I'll go to the center,” Ren grits out, forehead knitting in displeasure. 

Hux clips out a benevolent chuckle as he rises from his chair. “Are you threatening me with what I wanted you to do in the first place?” 

“You can't stop me.”

Before Ren can formulate any further rebuttal Hux sidesteps the desk and closes the space between them. Ren startles but Hux takes hold of a fistful of hair behind his ear and tugs, just a fraction, until Ren stills. Hux's gaze catches on that plump pout for longer than necessary before he drags his attention up to Ren's wide, unblinking eyes.

“Now that I have your attention,” Hux murmurs. “I'll remind you that you are, as ever, free to do as you wish. You're not my sub. Make an appointment at the center, find another dom, it's up to you.” 

“I don't want another dom,” Ren blurts out. Crimson stains his cheeks, and he corrects, “I don't want _a_ dom.” 

But his shallow breathing, the yielding openness of his face, tells another story. Hux doesn't care for Ren's particular brand of insolence but beneath the shell is a man who craves not just a few play sessions but a permanent source of guidance, direction, attachment.

“What _do_ you want, Ren?” A dangerous question. If it has an answer, Ren chooses not to share it.

Up close, his eyes are not quite so dark as they seem. They're slightly hooded in shape, liquid soft, with a faint hazel cast – so _beseeching_ – 

Hux cannot be the one to give him what he needs. He releases Ren's hair, realizing only now how very close they're standing. His uniform brushes against Ren's rough woven cowl, and he sharply turns his gaze from the anxious part of Ren's lips. 

“Perhaps this arrangement has run its course.” Hux takes a deliberate step back, automatically adopting the safe, familiar posture of parade rest. “You and I will complete our final session, and from then on you can make regular visits to the center... no one's sub, as before.” 

Whatever Ren's reaction to this, it's hidden behind hands, hair, and metal as he replaces his helmet. With his face blank and masked he manages to loom, his shoulders broad, gloved hands fisted at his side. 

“Of course,” comes the impassive, electronic rumble. 

As Ren departs without another word, Hux returns to his chair and frowns out the viewport. The star-scattered canvas of space is refreshing on strained eyes. He drums his fingers on the desk in an aimless staccato; it's inefficient to work until his brain is given a chance to sort through the current influx of new and nebulous thoughts.

Methodically he sifts through them, but the only conclusion he draws is that, for the first time in a good while, he feels the impulse to drop by the center. He could, after his shift. Unlike Ren, no prohibition exists for him. But he's self-aware enough to recognize it would do no more than take the edge off. 

Hux has significantly more patience than Ren and it's no trouble to wait until their session, but he can't deny the sliver of anticipatory pleasure. Ren is irritating as a colleague yet intriguing as a submissive. The juxtaposition of his power and pliability, those velvet eyes, the soft hints of surrender peeking through the prickly exterior... well, it's only natural for a dom to be taken with such a tempting sub.

He'd thought Ren a spoiled, temperamental brat and nothing more. But there's something appealing in him, something unmoored and defenseless, and Hux can't – won't – allow himself to be seduced into fixing it.

“Sir, shall we continue?” It's Mitaka, clutching his datapad and several folders. Hux hadn't even heard him enter. 

“Yes, thank you for your promptness.” He turns away from the window, rolling his neck as if to reset himself, transferring his thought process from the personal to professional. “Page thirteen...?”

 

* * *

 

“I'll miss our session,” Kylo weighs in, two steps behind Hux as they exit the assembly room that serves as Snoke's audience chamber aboard the _Finalizer._

Hux performs an abrupt about-face as the wide doorway irises shut behind them. “Leader Snoke sends you to that cesspool of a planet and you're concerned about our session?” The skin between his fair brows is furrowed, and Kylo can't quite tell if it's in bemusement or disdain. 

“I wished only to clarify,” Kylo explains stiffly.

“Clarified, then.” Hux gives him a long, probing look, and Kylo decides it isn't disdain after all, only thoughtfulness. Hope surges up in his chest as he waits for Hux to continue; then, disgusted with himself, Kylo changes his mind and squashes it.

“General,” he states by way of farewell as he brushes past.

“Ren,” Hux returns. 

Kylo doesn't look back. But even thinking that is to acknowledge he thought about doing so in the first place. And that's almost as bad.

 

* * *

 

Hux was right. Bellnassa is a cesspool. The planet's surface is overrun with the sprawl of its capitol city, garish and glittering and seedy from downtown to the swampy suburbs. Covered alleys are lined with cutthroats and sharp-smiled prostitutes, neon signs shimmering and sputtering in irregular, soul-sucking patterns. Kylo wonders when Hux was here before and envisions those patrician features crinkled with distaste. 

His target is well-hidden in the vast maze of the slums, and neither she nor the information she carries is found or taken without a fight. Nor did Kylo count on her having quite so many friends.

It's successful, but battered, that he eventually drags himself back onto the _Finalizer._ He'll report to Leader Snoke in the morning but for now he showers, picks at a nutribar, then redresses in a clean set of clothes and messages Hux. 

_Where are you?_

He turns the comm over and over in his hand while he waits for the chirp. _Officer's lounge. Why? Where are you?_

_Can I meet you when you're finished?_

_I assume this means you're back. You're free to join me, or you can come to my quarters in an hour._

Kylo knows all the ship's facilities are available for his use, but sitting at a table and attempting to socialize isn't a perk he cares to take advantage of. So he finds himself waiting. More waiting. Wasn't that the point of this entire exercise? He concedes to another nutribar. 

He arrives outside Hux's door in time to watch its resident stride around the corner, greatcoat draped over one arm, momentum slowing as he takes in Kylo's split lip and developing black eye.

“I have a final report to finish up,” he comments, tugging off one glove and pressing his thumb to the access panel. “If you don't mind.” 

Kylo trails behind as Hux removes the other glove, placing the pair on an inset shelf by the door and hanging his coat on the peg beneath. He thinks he would almost be happy just watching Hux move about the room, unwinding and going through his evening routine.

“Undress to your level of comfort and wait on my bed,” Hux directs as he unfastens the top hook of his uniform and settles down at his desk. 

Kylo sets his belt and lightsaber on the nightstand with a clunk and begins the process of shedding his layers. He slides his eyes to the desk as he unbuckles his boots so but Hux is occupied, fingers tapping nimbly on a holo keyboard. Kylo's hit with a burst of admiration at his competence, his dedication. 

Kylo lets his robes pool at his feet and, feeling abruptly exposed despite his underwear and Hux's lack of attention, lies down on his belly with his arms folded under his head. As his abused muscles relax he ponders whether Hux is genuinely busy, or drawing out the wait to torment him further. 

He turns his face into the bedding and inhales – the crisp freshness, the almost imperceptible whiff of citrus – is that Hux's soap, or does his station entitle him to a better class of laundry detergent...? His thread count is certainly superior... 

When Kylo awakes it's with a disoriented jolt. The chrono by the bed indicates two hours have passed. Hux remains at his desk but his uniform has been swapped for lounge wear, revealing he has indeed moved at some point. The tank and soft, slim black pants lend him a casual air at odds with the rigid, formal mental image Kylo carries of him. His neat profile is contemplative, hands steepled as he surveys a holo of the Starkiller blueprints projecting from his pad. 

“You let me fall asleep,” Kylo accuses, and Hux startles, eyes retraining on him in the dim alcove.

“You were exhausted. You needed it,” he counters as he closes the projection. “Besides, you're much more pleasant to deal with when you're comatose.” 

Kylo tucks his forearms under him as Hux crosses the room, bed shifting under his weight as he sits on the edge. He sifts his hand through the tumble of Kylo's hair and Kylo pushes, catlike, into it.

“I want you to summon a medical droid in the morning.” 

“S'worse than it looks,” Kylo grumbles, partly muffled by the pillow. “I'm not made of glass.”

“I'm sure you aren't. But your file shows a history of ignoring injuries, and caution doesn't hurt.” He goes to brush hair from Kylo's temple but withdraws, as if thinking better of having touched him at all. “Now go get some sleep.” 

“You're sending me away?” Kylo cringes at the alarm in his voice. Hux looks taken aback as well.

“Don't tell me Force users can survive on cat naps.” There's an angle to his lips that resembles a smile. Kylo stares at it, something inside him twisting. 

How to explain what he himself can't understand? He came here practically straight from the shuttle; pathetic. Why had returning to Hux's proximity felt so urgent? Hux doesn't seem the type to be enthralled by an outpouring of sentiment, despite his current expression – intent, as ever, but outlined with what Kylo would swear could pass for affection if he wasn't biased by his own wishful thinking. 

“Sir...” The word carries a trace of roughness from sleep. “Can I...?” He should have decided what he was going to say before he began. _Can I stay? Can you touch me again?_ “I'd like to finish our final session.”

Hux's brows just about reach his hairline. “Now? After...” His eyes rake over Kylo's body, over the myriad scrapes and contusions and the shadow blossoming around his eye socket.

It would be so easy for Kylo to take the opportunity to deflect from himself. _Why else would I be here? Why let me in if not for that?_

“I told you, it's nothing,” is what he says instead. 

Hux doesn't smile again, but his eyes do, and it's painful to witness. “I'm not going to add further damage to satiate your need to get off.”

“Yeah,” Kylo mumbles into the pillow. “Sure. I just need to get off.” 

He steels himself for dismissal, but when Hux's hands skim along either side of his waist he can't hold back the spontaneous moan of relief. Hux is touching his injuries, Kylo realizes, just the lightest fingertip acknowledgment on each cut and scrape, and he absorbs the contact like a plant soaking up the sun's rays. 

“Good things come to those who wait.” Hux's quiet voice is a balm on those parts inside Kylo his hands can't reach. “I'm pleased with you, Ren. You've done very well.” 

Hux's hand slips beneath Kylo and into his underwear, closing around his already jutting cock. Kylo keens and bucks into it, making fists in the pillow and burying his face in his forearm. Hux's grip is firm but languorous, the fluid rotation of his wrist unraveling Kylo stroke by stroke. He bestows soft, deliberate kisses on Kylo's back, an eternity between each press of his lips, and Kylo trembles with the effort of remaining still under his attentions. 

“I hope at some point,” Hux murmurs into the furrow between his shoulder blades, “Someone has appreciated you the way you deserve.”

It's too much to bear.

“I want you to fuck me, general,” he chokes; too forward, too soon, but the words won't stay in his chest where they belong.

“Do you?” It's more of a statement than a question, and if Kylo had been more clear-headed he might have detected surprise in it. There's a pause, that feels longer than it probably is, before Hux comes forward to cover Kylo's back, mouthing at the delicate skin under his ear. Kylo arches up into his weight, squirming, gasping as one knee presses his thighs apart. 

“Yes, sir, please,” he breathes, and is rewarded by Hux's teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder. He yelps at the sublime pain of it, rocking his hips into Hux's steady hand. 

“Fetch me the bottle in my nightstand,” Hux whispers into the place where shoulder meets neck. He abandons Kylo's cock now, tugging the underwear down and massaging Kylo's firm buttocks. “Top drawer. Don't move, now.”

Kylo's concentration is lacking at present but he turns his head and focuses as best he can on pulling the drawer out, sending the opaque little bottle gliding through the air and dropping on the bed within Hux's reach.

“Very good.” 

Kylo shifts from side to side so Hux can tear his underwear off completely. He digs his fingers into the flesh of Kylo's ass, none too gently, and with a shove to his shoulder Hux prompts him to flip over.

“I want you to look at me, Ren.” His eyes glint, his breathing uneven as he kneels between Kylo's legs. A section of his hair has fallen forward and Kylo stares, transfixed at how it captures the dim light as Hux pulls his shirt over his head. 

His body is marble-pale, all tendons and graceful lines, smooth and unmarked by so much as a single freckle. Kylo's fingers twitch with compulsion to reach out and Hux tilts his chin in permission. For some reason Kylo expected him to be cold but his skin is so warm, satiny over the wiry sinews beneath. A dusting of auburn hair arrows down the flat plane of his abdomen and and Kylo spreads one hand over it, the other fumbling hungrily with his waistband, beyond concern with how blatant his need is as he pulls Hux down to him again.

For a breathless, lurching moment Kylo expects a kiss but Hux moves lower, biting at the ridge of his collarbone, one hand knotting with his and pinning it to the bed. Kylo's electrified by the intimacy of their laced fingers, this somehow even more erotic than Hux's other hand snapping open the bottle and slipping between their bodies to work his trousers down. 

When their cocks rut together, Hux's mouth laving Kylo's earlobe, Kylo squeezes his eyes tight, unable to withstand the sensation overload. A wordless sound bubbles up in his chest, feverish and feral and pleading, as Hux's slickened finger brushes over his cleft. 

“There we are, pretty boy,” he purrs, honey sweet into Kylo's ear as he pushes past the tight rim. Kylo jerks upward and throws his free arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow as Hux sweeps over that most sensitive of spots. Hux's other hand releases Kylo's and flexes instead around the column of his throat, larynx slotting in the space between thumb and forefinger. The fractional tightening of his fingers coaxes a low, yielding whimper from Kylo, vision blurring and belly clenching with desire.

Hux pulls back in one agile motion and Kylo sucks in a lungful of air, hands curling uselessly on either side of his face. Hux sits up to kick off his trousers entirely and Kylo's attention catches on the supple pink of his cock as he leisurely slicks himself, watching Kylo watch him. His cheeks are high with color, hair in disarray over his forehead; it softens his features, his mouth fuller, and he'd look almost like another person entirely were it not for those fierce jade eyes. 

He stretches himself atop Kylo again, raking his wet hand through Kylo's hair and yanking his head back. Kylo's delirious with want now and both arms wind tightly around Hux's shoulders, the bones of scapula and spine an anchor as Hux teases at his entrance until Kylo's on the verge of screaming. 

When Hux finally breaches him it's with exquisite and punishing slowness. Kylo's whine is ragged as he's stretched, filled; and when Hux bottoms out Kylo can only shudder with the rightness of it. The second slick, measured slide in is somehow even more torturous, Kylo clinging and writhing as Hux sets the pace with the easy roll of his hips. 

Hux lets go of his hair and takes him firmly by the ass, angling him so the blunt head of his cock hits his prostate, and Kylo thrashes his head to the side, muscles shaking with the building tension roaring through him. His fingers slip into the fine hair at Hux's nape, pitiful, wanton gasps choking out of Kylo with each relentless thrust.

Between the damp flesh of their torsos Hux tugs again on Kylo's cock, swift and sure, his other hand coming up to cup his face, thumb dragging over his cheekbone; and Kylo almost can't decide which sensation is sweeter. Hux's lips are so warm on the corded muscle in his neck, wrecking Kylo with every harsh breath, each aching suck of his perfect mouth – 

Kylo doesn't try to hold back the strangled cry as he shatters in Hux's arms, body bowing up as every fiber, every filament in him detonates into a white-hot haze. As if it's a trigger Hux groans and slams in to the hilt, pulsing inside and filling him even further; he sinks his face into Kylo's hair, panting, and through the cloud of his pleasure Kylo thinks vaguely that if he hadn't already come, that would have done it. 

As he spirals down from his climax Hux pulls free, leaving Kylo to roll languidly on his side with his face in the sheets. His limbs are fuzzy, floating; his brain is, for once, quiet. On some level he's is aware of the sound of the 'fresher, of Hux moving about the room, but the cool air is invigorating now and he's too boneless to follow suit. A towel is placed by his arm, and Kylo rouses himself enough to wipe the come from his belly. 

Kylo hadn't been sure what would occur during their last session, nor had he thought through his purpose in coming here tonight, but he feels... absolved. Like diving down deep and finally breaking up through the surface of the water. Wouldn't it be nice to cocoon here in Hux's space, under sheets still rumpled and warm from the sex, and if Hux was there too... 

He pushes up on his arms to find Hux sitting on the couch, shirtless and in his lounge pants, legs spread and one arm draped over the back of the cushions. His head is tipped back to watch the silvery smoke curling up from his cigarra. Even in repose his back is straight. 

As Kylo sits up and stretches Hux glances over with unspoken appreciation, and Kylo blushes, focusing on gathering the mass of his clothing. His skin feels so fresh and so good, he doesn't want to dress, but he's not going to walk through the ship with telltale marks on his neck and his robes slung over his arm.

“You're right,” he announces, paying more attention to his boot straps than they need, “I should rest.” 

Hux doesn't respond. When Kylo straightens and approaches him Hux rises also, pants riding low on his hips, lifting slim fingers and taking another drag of the cigarra. His expression is even more taciturn than usual, a sort of indecisive aloofness that Kylo doesn't think he's seen before. There are welts on his shoulders, the crescents from fingernails; Kylo doesn't remember doing that. 

“Don't forget the medical droid,” Hux says around a mouthful of smoke. In his bare feet he's an inch or two shorter, and it's odd to look down to meet his eyes. Kylo hadn't known how heavily he relied on the Force to read people until it was forbidden him. He realizes also how content he would be to stay, to sit on the floor at Hux's desk and listen to the repetitive tap of his fingers on his pad, like calming rain. Hux's mind is so tidy, so peaceful. Maybe after, Hux would come to bed, and they'd fit themselves together like puzzle pieces – 

“I won't forget,” he mutters, fumbling with the access pad and escaping before the door had a chance to slide open fully.

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

* * *

 

Sex had not been on the table. That much Hux assumed, without considering it one way or another, before going into this arrangement. He intended to straighten Ren out, and that much he believes he's accomplished, but anything further – actually _fucking_ him – hadn't really crossed his mind. 

His fault for assuming. 

It was good, though. Very good. Not just the physicality of the sex but the energy of it, the beauty of Ren's abandon. Plainly it came naturally – both his submission and stubbornness about it – and it occurs to Hux to wonder if Ren has ever worn a dom's collar. Subbing is one thing, being taken as a sub is another; and whoever had the tenacity to handle such a willful, headstrong, powerful submissive would be rewarded with fierce devotion indeed. 

Such thoughts can be risky, and Hux redirects them to more appropriate lines. 

When he sees Ren again two days later it's just outside the bridge, as Ren is parting ways from a quartet of stormtroopers and Hux is heading for the logistics reception hangar to sort out a discrepancy with an incoming supply shipment.

“A word?” he suggests with the utmost cordiality, and Ren follows as he steps aside out of the flow of traffic. Hux maintains several professional feet of distance between them. 

“The other night didn't have much in the way of discipline.” It's peculiar to converse with – at – the sterile, silent helmet when he's seen the soulful face underneath flushed with passion, desperate and begging for him. He can almost taste the salt from Ren's skin. “I apologize for neglecting that obligation, but I didn't feel you were in the right shape for it. So I'd like to remind you now – ”

“The center,” Ren interrupts. “I know. I have an appointment made.” 

“Very well.” There's a flicker of satisfaction at Ren's obedience; a flicker of something else. Hux can't see Ren's eyes but he can feel his attention trained on him, anticipatory and alert. He likes having Ren's focus this way, as if they continue their thoughts will dovetail and they'll sync up. 

A frazzled aide hurries past, weaving around a pair of TIE pilots, and it jars Hux back to business. There's nothing further to be said, so he nods in both acknowledgment and dismissal and continues on his way. 

It's only as he turns at the end of the corridor that he notices Ren is still where he left him.

 

* * *

 

Discipline regulations are especially important for subs, but all benefit from a release of their natural instincts so it doesn't bleed through into their work. Hux is self-aware enough to feel himself getting snappish, and over breakfast one morning he accesses the center's scheduler on his pad. He's pleased to see Lieutenant Abwa's marked down for a session that night, and he inputs his name next to hers on the schedule. Pia's a fine officer and agreeable partner, and as he finishes his meal he allows himself to enjoy the thought of taking out his stress on the slim blonde. 

The rest of his shift passes without incident and after he squares everything away he heads straight to the center. The carpets have been freshly shampooed, he notes, indicated by the scent of cleaning products and the straight lines from the cleaning machine. A simple thing to notice, but he appreciates these little signs of order.

Hux stops short as he enters the locker room. Standing at the end of the center row, Kylo Ren is easily recognized even from behind. The mop of hair, those robust shoulders and well-muscled back – currently adorned with messy crosshatch of pink stripes someone else has given him. Hux's nostrils flare, an alarming pressure plumes in his chest – 

He crushes it with swift and steely efficiency and continues to a free locker. 

Even in profile Kylo looks tired, his eyes cast down, but they widen when he turns and spots Hux. He recovers poorly, blanking his face as he bunches his shirt in one hand, but the effort is made nonetheless. 

“General,” he says, and the formality of the greeting is weakened by the odd thread of relief in it. 

“Good evening,” Hux returns, positioning the locker door to block his view. He tends to remain mostly clothed for his sessions but even as he hangs up his greatcoat and uniform jacket he's conscious of being watched, as Kylo performs the mirror opposite motions. Undershirt, tunic, surcoat, cowl... Kylo disappears, shrouded in black, and Ren takes reign. 

Hux pauses when he identifies that familiar push at the forefront of his skull. His good mood has taken a turn with this unforeseen encounter, and Ren's prying only sours it further. 

“You know I don't like that,” he warns, slamming his locker shut and advancing on Ren. “Who was your dom tonight? I'll have to let them know they wasted their time.”

Ren looks contrite and more than a little stung, and busies himself with sliding on his gloves. “Sorry,” he mutters, flexing his fingers. 

“You've been strictly forbidden from invading my privacy.” For a wild moment, Hux considers dragging him into a spare playroom and flogging him for his disobedience until he cries. Ren's face would glisten with fat tears, his pleas husky and reverent... Hux throttles the urge. “If you want to ask me something, do so. That's an order.” 

Beneath the fringe of his hair, Ren's wary eyes flick up. “But I apologized.”

Hux stands his ground, folding his hands and tilting his head expectantly. Ren's gloves seem to fascinate him, and he chews the inside of one cheek as he fiddles with the seams. It's not difficult to see why Ren can't resist poking around in people's heads; it would be so simple if Hux could delve in and pluck out whatever's on the tip of his tongue. Struck by an unavoidable impulse, he reaches out to tip Ren's chin up – 

“Room seven, sir?” comes the bright voice of Pia Abwa behind Hux. He turns to acknowledge her and she smiles, all enthusiastic sweetness, flaxen ponytail swaying as she exits. When he looks back at Ren he meets the lifeless facade of his helmet.

“She's beautiful,” observes that deep, modulated voice. Infuriating, that Ren can hide behind it. “I won't keep you waiting.” 

Ren sweeps past in a halo of crackling energy, so oppressive even Hux can sense it, rolling over him like a fog bank. Hux doesn't stop him.

If he goes a little too hard on Abwa, she doesn't complain.

 

* * *

 

“Now that negotiations have been initiated with Sadni, an in-person meeting is the next step.” Snoke's sonorous voice fills the conference room, scarred visage inspecting the pair before him. “I leave it to you, General, to head this up.” 

In his customary place to Kylo's right, Hux nods in brisk affirmation. “I'll set the ship on course and assemble a landing party.” 

“You will accompany him.” Snoke focuses his piercing gaze on Kylo. “The Sadni people are inhospitable but superstitious, and the presence of one with abilities such as yours may bolster positive feelings towards the Order. They're also prone to duplicity, and it may prove useful to examine the king's thoughts for yourself rather than relying on his lip service. Exercise caution in this endeavor, both of you.” 

Kylo doesn't thrill to the idea of tagging along on a bureaucratic mission but he's not in the habit of refusing Leader Snoke. His reluctance must be evident in the lines of his posture because Hux casts him a penetrating sidelong glance. But as Snoke ends the transmission, Hux doesn't address him further, and Kylo ignores the questioning lift of his brow and stalks out unhindered. 

He elects to retreat from the upper levels he and Hux primarily work on, to a small observation platform in the bowels of the ship. Sometimes when his quarters are too cramped, closing in on him in homogeneous gray, he meditates there before the cosmos. It's not a popular spot, and if anyone does come along his presence serves as an immediate deterrent. 

He shares the lift with two oblivious sergeants. Though their uniforms and rank bands are identical, their comportment is polar opposite. One wears a collar of silver patent leather with gold hardware – a frippery that garish must be skirting the dress code – and an expression of pure adoration, mirrored by his domme's fond, possessive smile. Kylo shivers with delighted disgust at the tableau. 

Is that what it means, to be collared? This degradation, this feigned and servile helplessness? Is it even feigned at all? The sub seems nothing but content. Near blissful. Within his helmet, secret heat rushes to Kylo's cheeks to mentally insert himself into such a position. 

Is that how he looks? Doe-eyed and slavish? Not the other night at the center, he knows – that had just been basic maintenance, the dom competent but forgettable, as most were – but when he's with Hux. That was different, though. Those moments were private and unaffected, not paraded around for all to witness. Would Hux expect that of him?

It's an irrelevant line of thinking, as Hux had not asked Kylo to wear his collar, nor would Kylo accept if he did. He doesn't _think_ he wants to be Hux's sub. Anyone's. But he wants to be Hux's... something.

His meditation does not come readily. He stands with his hands linked loosely at his back, feet apart. The floor is too hard even through the soles of his boots, the star field before him an endless distraction. The window encompasses the entire wall and, if he looks through his lashes, he can pretend he's drifting there through the cold calm of space. Instead of instant suffocation, he imagines serenity. Quiet. Sometimes his thoughts move far too fast for his own liking.

The ship's hyperdrive gives a little tug, stars streaking away into the spiraling patterns of lightspeed, and Kylo envisions Hux plotting coordinates on the bridge far above him. If he reached out he could pinpoint Hux's frequency, his unique energy signal, one of thousands but as familiar to him now as his own. 

He makes a valiant effort to resist the temptation, and fails in seconds.

When he locates Hux it's not on the bridge, nor his office, but in one of the senior officers' dining halls. It's after the normal lunch hour for this shift, and there are few others present, but he glimpses blonde hair and a bright smile. The lieutenant from the center.

Meditation seems suddenly trivial and Kylo's moving before he gives any thought to what he plans to do.

He typically eats alone but he knows where the hall is, and his long strides carry him there with the kind of formidable purpose that has passersby darting out of his way. Their opinions mean little to him but in this moment, seized inside by this fatal weakness, he basks in their fear. 

The dining hall is long and low and furnished with modish round tables arranged at comfortable intervals, a far cry from the crowded enlisted canteens or stormtrooper chow lines. A service droid is removing plates from a table near the door and as it rolls away it reveals Hux, sipping a mug of caf with a pensive expression, attentive to his blonde companion as she relates some story or information. Kylo knows that look in her blue eyes and makes himself drink in the scene, wallowing in the hollowness that pangs perilously close to his heart. 

As the droid moves past Ren to the kitchens the line of sight between him and the table clears. Hux's double-take is subtle, and one brow cocks at Kylo's unexpected presence. 

“Ren.” His greeting is civil, as ever, as Kylo stalks over. The trace of surprise in it is not negative in nature, but it's there nonetheless. When it becomes obvious Kylo has nothing to say, merely looming over the table and the uncertain lieutenant in particular, Hux purses his lips. 

“If you'll excuse us,” he says to her, without taking his eyes off Kylo. 

“Oh – of course, Taj,” she replies in a soft undertone, gathering her coat and comm. “I'll message you those files from my station.” 

Taj. What's Taj? The lieutenant gives him a wide berth on her way out and Kylo watches her go with spiteful satisfaction. 

“Have you come to eat?”

“She addresses you by your first name?”

They speak simultaneously. There's only one other diner nearby, nose all but touching his datapad. If his diligence is legitimate or he's only faking such absorption to avoid notice, it's irrelevant to Kylo. 

“You act surprised that I have one.” Hux's casual amusement only stokes Kylo's simmering agitation. “And why not? We're off duty. I admit I prefer my surname, but it doesn't bother me. She has an affectionate nature.”

“Affectionate,” Kylo seethes, fists clenching to the point that the tendons in his forearms ache. Hux's easy, composed manner shifts to something sharper. 

“If this is turning into what I think it is, we should take it elsewhere.” He downs the last of his caf, centering the empty mug on the coaster before standing and settling his coat on his shoulders. 

“What do you think it is?” Kylo challenges as he storms out behind Hux. 

“You tell me.” Hux veers away from the main corridor and down a narrow side passage, a dead-end away from any inquisitive eyes. His coattails swirl as he rounds on Kylo. “You certainly didn't seem interested in the menu.”

“And you seemed very interested in the lieutenant.” 

“You sound triumphant, Ren. As if you've caught me doing something I shouldn't. Which we both know isn't the case.” For what could very well be the thousandth time, Kylo's grateful his burning face is concealed as Hux's stare drills into him. “How did you know where I was? I can only assume you were using the Force to follow me.” 

Kylo feels it now, the inevitable and growing tendril of regret for coming here. He hadn't thought it through in the slightest. But he can't back down now, even in the daunting face of Hux's raw disdain. “I'm sure any sub of yours would never dream of such disobedience.” 

“Lieutenant Abwa's not my sub. We've been friends and colleagues long enough that if I wanted her, she would be by now.” 

“She wouldn't say no to your collar if you offered it.”

“Rifling around in her head, too?”

“No. I can just tell.”

“I think your perception in this matter is rather biased,” Hux scoffs. Kylo's belligerence is getting to him now, worming under that well-disciplined exterior, and it pleases Kylo on the pettiest of levels. Hux draws in a visible breath to retain his composure. “And so what if it were true? She keeps it to herself and doesn't let it affect our interactions.”

“Taj.” The syllable is foreign on his tongue; short, casual. Kylo will ruminate later on whether it suits him. “Your name is Taj.” Of course Hux has a first name. Of the intimacies they had shared, this one seems shockingly informal. 

Hux – it doesn't feel right thinking of him as anything else – exhales through his nose. “A nickname.” 

“She has a _nickname_ for you. You're on nickname basis.” 

Hux's restrained exasperation turns to stark disapproval. “It originated with a classmate at the academy, not her. And I won't have you interrogate me in regards to my personal relationships.” 

“What's it a nickname for?”

“That's not your concern.” 

Overcome, Kylo seizes the front of Hux's uniform and drives him back against the wall. Hux's lean body hits the paneling with a thump, coat rucking up at the shoulders. He stiffens like a snake ready to strike, eyes narrowing to slits of unadulterated contempt as he pushes forward against Kylo's fists. 

“Rethink that,” Hux grits out through his teeth. 

“You goad me.” Kylo's voice breaks, distorted through the vocoder. He splays one frantic palm flat against Hux's chest as if desperate to find his heart, to see if it's as wildly beating as his own. 

“I do nothing of the sort.” Each word is an ice chip, hammering home Hux's derision and indifference. It's dawning on Kylo that he couldn't have chosen a worse way to confront him. He feels stripped, exposed, his temper on the verge of hemorrhaging; he uncurls his fingers and takes an unsteady step back, lacing his hands over his helmet's dome in despair. 

The anguish of it seems to soften Hux's bearing a degree, still stern but diluted. “Take that thing off and look me in the eye, Ren.” 

“I will not.” 

“As you wish.” Hux straightens his uniform, two quick tugs on the jacket to smooth away any evidence of Kylo's touch. “Are you ready to tell me why you came here?” 

Hux must already know why, and therefore knows Kylo knows that he knows, and asking he admit it is just a useless exercise in scraping him to the very bone. But Hux isn't cruel enough to demand a confession solely to embarrass and humble him, so it must matter to him in some way or else he'd have walked away by now. 

These avenues of speculation unfold all at once in Kylo's head, and in his conflict he considers laying himself bare before Hux.

 _Jealous._ So childish, so impotent. _Weak._ That's what this has cost him – his inability to master his temper on his own has led him down this path of even greater fallibility. To expose it to Hux, the cause of it, would be akin to opening a vein. _Weak._

“I came to suggest all-weather gear. For tomorrow.” It's an abysmal lie. As if Hux isn't aware, hasn't examined and prepared for every facet of this assignment. Is that disappointment on his face? The change in micro-expression is elusive but crushing. Kylo soldiers on. “The Sadni climate is not... accommodating.” 

“Thank you for your counsel, Ren.” Hux's voice is distant and resigned. As he goes Kylo can _feel_ it, sand slipping through his fingers. “I will see you in the starboard hangar at 0700 hours.”

 

* * *

 

Sadni is a boreal planet, currently in the depths of its winter season, and even in the reception hall deep in the heart of the subterranean citadel Kylo can see his colleagues' breath. If the mood had been tense on the shuttle it was outright brittle now. 

His Majesty Tri Zahz, Highest Lord of Sadni, Son of the Wildwoods, First of His Name, et cetera and so on and so forth, holds court from a throne assembled of stone slabs, swathed in voluminous furs and glowering from beneath bushy brows. Six guards in the shadows behind the throne stare in challenge at the pair of stormtroopers. Major Tobin, the negotiator clearly fighting the urge to put his gloved but freezing hands in his pockets, advised that any more than two might be interpreted as open hostility. Kylo has his doubts, and although Hux didn't say so openly, Kylo could tell he does, too.

“We're pleased to meet you in person at last, and we thank you for your hospitality,” Hux begins, although such a word is an inaccurate description of the way they're being sized up. He wears a sleek but heavy quilted coat and its high collar is turned up against the chill. His hair, dim light tinting it bronze beneath his command cap, is stark against his pale, serious face.

“We welcome our First Order visitors.” Zahz's words are belied by the suspicious jut of his bearded chin. “We have read your proposal and are amenable to counter negotiations.” 

“As is natural,” Major Tobin responds from Hux's left. “Such an agreement should and will benefit all involved.” 

A sandy-haired switch with a pleasant but sage manner, Tobin is young, and if he's nervous about such a delicate situation he doesn't reveal it. The Sadni people are prickly and mistrustful of outsiders, and while the Order could easily steamroll such an insignificant rock into doing its bidding, gaining their cooperation – and loyalty – would be easier and beneficial in the long run.

“You bring a Force user with you.” The king's thick, ringed finger jabs at Kylo, standing to Hux's right with his feet planted wide on the uneven ground. “I recognize him as such by his weapon. One must wonder at the First Order's intentions if it feels the need to send armed sorcerers into our midst.”

“We understand your people are partial to the mystical arts,” Tobin explains, his meaningful smile a cue for Kylo to perform his party trick. He casts around for something to do and sets his sights on the iron braziers flanking the throne. It's child's play to pluck a sample of the flames and dance it before Zahz, but the king's beady eyes follow the miniature fireball, rotating on its axis like a planet, with barely concealed awe. He's as primitive as his underground palace, Kylo thinks.

“An amusing bit of magic,” Zahz comments, intrigued despite his pretense of gruffness.

This is not just a peace offering but an opportunity for Kylo to pry into his mind undetected. It's locked down tight but a bit of coaxing, along with a second, smaller fireball added to the first as an orbiting moon, distract the king enough to let him slip in. 

Through Zahz's mental defenses Kylo can sense his aggression towards the Order and – there, the coiled serpent of treachery – avaricious and intent – there is some tie to the Resistance that he can't quite parse, but he passes what he can glean to Hux. He gives no sign of having received it, but in that brief moment inside his head during the information transfer, Kylo gets a sense of bored disappointment with the revelation. 

“Kylo Ren's skill goes far beyond these illusions,” Tobin informs the king, in a tone filled with promise. “As does his master's. An ally as powerful as Supreme Leader Snoke is an asset we're sure you can appreciate.” 

“Powerful indeed,” Hux speaks up. His eyes glint in the amber glow of the braziers, his bearing rigid and still. “Valuable to our friends, and deadly to those who would betray us.” 

“As laid out in the treaty, Sadni would receive not only a percentage of the mining profits, but the protection of the Order from those who may interfere,” Tobin offers, guiding the topic away from veiled threats and towards more alluring benefits. “You would gain the the security of a company of stormtroopers – ”

“I think the king has heard all he needs to,” Hux interrupts, brow taut. “And perhaps would rather make his alliances elsewhere.”

No Force sensitivity is necessary to see Zahz's hackles rise, barrel chest expanding beneath his robes. His guards' blaster rifles rise a fraction, but he relaxes back in his chair with a complacent chuckle. Kylo presses again into his mind as subtly as he can but without the distraction of the fireballs Zahz flinches, lines creasing his forehead – Kylo releases his grip on the king's thoughts but it's too late. 

“What is it that you're doing?” The volume of his accusation rises with each word. “You think I cannot feel your Force-user rooting around in my head?” 

“A side effect of the trick,” Tobin soothes, unaware of the information passing silently through the room. “May we show you another?” 

“You think to steal my thoughts!” Zahz laughs. From the shadows, his guards spring to life, bristling with obsidian plating, and the stormtroopers mirror the movement, plastoid armor clicking as they fall into position before their superiors. “You prove as deceitful and scheming as I've been warned.” 

“By a great many parties, I'm sure.” Hux's voice is glacial. The already uneasy atmosphere has shifted, hard-edged and rippling with animosity. “An alliance is evidently not in either of our best interests.” 

“Forgive us. Leader Snoke would be displeased indeed to know his apprentice has offended you thus.” Tobin may be unaware of exactly how the situation has turned, but he's at his diplomatic best trying to salvage it. “We will not waste any more of your time.”

The king smirks. “On that, we agree.” 

A signal to his guards and they raise their rifles; on reflex Kylo throws a hand up, paralyzing them in place, arm trembling with the effort of restraining six people. Zahz's mouth falls open, face ruddy with embarrassment and rage.

“Do you regularly try to assassinate those who come to talk terms?” Hux demands. In Kylo's peripheral vision he draws a blaster from within his coat, training it on the king. Despite his steady arm he's radiating stress, jagged and shrill. 

“Only First Order thugs,” the king spits. Displeasure loosens his mind and Kylo can see his intentions laid bare – not execution but capture, in exchange for a hefty reward from the Resistance. Sadni had been limping along since the days of the Empire, with barely enough resources to survive, let alone restore and resume the large scale mining operations that would fill their coffers. Kylo lets this all stream from his mind to Hux's and feels his swell of anger. 

“We will take our leave now,” Hux announces, his features a mask of icy fury. As he and Tobin back towards the tall double doors, flanked by the 'troopers, Kylo finds he cannot follow for the strain of immobilizing the guards. They could've been neutralized with a full squad of troopers. He conveys his predicament to Hux via thought, who instructs Zahz, “Tell your guards to stand down. There will be no alarm or call for back up if they value your life. Am I clear?” 

Zahz's only response is a wide, smug grin, and although Kylo cannot turn without losing concentration he hears the tromp and rustle of guards filling the hall behind him. 

“You won't kill me,” Zahz taunts Hux. “You wouldn't risk it. The Order wishes to fly under the radar, not attract the attention of the New Republic or that pesky Resistance.”

“If my choices are killing you or being handed over to them, I'll take my chances with the former.” 

Kylo's other arm snaps out behind him, whirling to halt the dozen guards blocking the doors. They freeze like exotic statues, and Kylo pants at the exertion, vocoder crackling with static. Even through his shock Zahz has the decency to look impressed. He can be used as a hostage, but outnumbered as they are, they'll be seized if the guards aren't incapacitated. 

With his energy so otherwise occupied he can't communicate with Hux via thought any longer, so he addresses Zahz directly. “If you'll accompany us to the landing pad.” 

Hux considers, then seems to understand Kylo's intention, jerking his head towards the doors. As Zahz stomps down the rough-hewn steps of his throne he stares in disbelief at his useless guards, their eyes frantic and weapons worthless.

Hux keeps his blaster on Zahz, both hands secure on the grip as the king stalks to him. Kylo weighs his options. If he releases the guards one may well aim for a headshot on Hux to free their king. If he retains his hold on them, he's stuck. Even standing he can barely hold up under the strain.

“Ren, if you'll cover me.” Kylo angles his head to Hux to see him nod towards his lightsaber. With a gasp Kylo releases his hold on the guards and draws the saber, the blade arcing to life in the dark, low hall. Their faces are grim, rifles snicking as they fit them to their shoulders, but they remain where they are. 

They move in a tight knot – Zahz and Hux protected at the center, preceded by Tobin and a stormtrooper with Kylo and the other 'trooper bringing up the rear. The guards at the doors part reluctantly to allow them passage and Kylo moves backward through the doorway, every fiber concentrated on their small movements, on the righteous burn of their eyes. 

A throne guard fires and Kylo registers it a millisecond before it happens; he deflects the bolt with a flash of his saber, and and it strikes the wall in a harmless shower of rock. He clenches his free hand and snaps the guard's neck from across the room.

“Don't try that again.” 

It's a straight shot up the narrow passage to the surface. Hux covers Zahz with laser-like focus but Kylo keeps his attention on the king's broad back all the same, watching each unwilling step and each shift of his shaggy head as they move up the damp, uneven stairs.

“One would think,” Zahz muses loudly, “That at some point in recent years, the First Order would have learned the futility of trying to stomp anyone and everyone in its path.”

“On the contrary,” comes Hux's silky reply. “That's what we should have done here in the first place.” 

The wind howls through the dank tunnel that exits onto the landing pad, and as they move into the frigid air the nav lights on the snow-dusted shuttle blink on. Through the cockpit Kylo can see the pilot initiating takeoff sequence and peering out at the unexpected addition to the group. 

The two guards manning the entrance leap into action when they spot the blaster pressed against their king's skull. Enraged and confused, they glance to each other and to Zahz for answers and with a flick of his wrist Kylo renders them unconscious before they can act. They crumple in twin heaps of fabric, rifles clattering to the ground.

“The rest will be coming.” Kylo has to shout to be heard over the wind, and Hux nods quickly, backing towards the shuttle with his blaster still raised.

“I'd like you to board the shuttle now, Major,” Hux tells Tobin, who hurries up the ramp with one of the stormtrooper in tow. “Ren, take care of his majesty.” 

Kylo repeats the hand motion, but it doesn't have the desired effect; he steps closer, crushing the furred hem of the king's cloak under his boot, and forces the energy out through his palm. As he falters he catches sight of a glint at Zahz's neck; a crystal set within a flat, gold pendant. Force-blocking devices are rare and ancient, with a limited range, only enough for the wearer to protect their person – 

Expecting Kylo's immediate incapacitation of the king, Hux has lowered his blaster a degree, and Zahz, with surprising speed for a man of his mass, spins around and chops the blaster out of Hux's hands. Kylo lunges, ripping the necklace away and hurling Zahz across the landing pad, where he lands with an audible crunch in a flurry of furs.

Like ants guards pour from the tunnel, too many to hold back with the Force, and a handful peel off and rush to their king while the bulk of them open fire. Kylo twists, blocks, flings a bolt aside, his saber a whirl of crimson; beside him Hux has reclaimed his blaster and picks off guards one by one, face lined with concentration and eyes bright with adrenaline.

“Behind me,” Kylo roars, covering Hux as they back up in single file towards the shuttle. Whipping snowflakes obscure his line of sight, the enemy fire coming too heavy now for him to deflect and when a stray bolt hits him square in the chest he's thrown back and into an instantaneous collapse.

His saber hisses on the snow-packed tarmac, spitting and buzzing at the end of his flung out arm. There's more blaster fire he can barely hear over the rushing in his ears, and he gasps, gagging on blood, unable to catch his breath for the pain searing through his torso – 

He realizes in the vaguest way he's about to pass out and he fights, he fights so hard, but although the spirit is willing the flesh is weak, and darkness swallows him whole.

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

* * *

 

Hux has a number of strict rules for himself. One is that he never, ever day-drinks. He's broken this rule exactly twice – in celebration, when he was promoted to general and placed in charge of the Starkiller project, and yesterday, in the first quiet moment he got after leaving Kylo Ren bloodied and unconscious in the sick-bay. 

He's also stringent about keeping to a schedule, and that includes his sleeping habits. But when he finds himself drifting off at his desk, he has no choice but to acknowledge that his discipline is slipping. 

There's just so much to be done. If Sadni was any other planet, a land invasion would be impractical, but it's small and poorly armed so if he stretches the resources he might be able to make it work. In his indignation he did consider wiping out the populace completely – but that kind of rash overreaction would not only draw more attention than is wise, but be a disgraceful waste of free labor. 

Before taking any action he must deduce the level to which Sadni leadership is involved with the Resistance. Whether they were in league in this bid to apprehend First Order brass, or the entire mess was the result of an opportunistic backwater king taking advantage of the situation in hopes of a later reward, Hux couldn't yet say. But the Order has both the methods and persistence to find out.

And he happens to have access to the services of a rather powerful Force user who, if unlimited by the need to be stealthy, could rip open Tri Zahz's mind and let his secrets spill like entrails. 

Hux takes particular pleasure in this visual. He's not a sadist, or at least not much of one, but the king had the unfortunate gall to attack two things Hux cares very much about. The First Order, and – 

Stifle that next thought. 

He knows what it's going to be anyway. 

There had been a brief interval during the retreat, with Ren motionless on the ground and the stormtroopers laying down fire at Hux's back, that he'd known what it meant to burn white-hot with rage. It hadn't overwhelmed him – if anything it was clarity in essence as time condensed to a pinpoint, pure and needle sharp – and when the shuttle turned its guns on the encroaching guards and they'd managed to drag Ren aboard and haul out of there, he'd thought he was bringing Snoke a corpse. 

He'd snatched up Ren's lightsaber during the retreat and it sits now in his bottom drawer, its blunt angles taking up too much space. Much like its owner. Overlarge and deadly and graceless all at once.

The decanter next to the hilt beckons – but no, he doesn't want its numbing haze today. What he needs is focus. Extra strength caf will have to suffice, and an entire box of those luxury cigarras he'd been gifted by that consul on Rinus 3. He'd been saving them for a special occasion. 

He supposes this counts.

 

* * *

 

Aside from a med droid, Kylo is alone when he wakes. Equipment beep, beep, beeps somewhere above his head. His hair is sticky with bacta, eyes gritty with the blanketing grogginess that comes with sedation. Save for his underwear and the bandage wrapped tight around his waist, he's naked. The less-than-luxurious sheets, sick-bay standard, snag on his damp skin as he clumsily tugs away the oxygen mask obscuring his sight. 

“Droid,” he rasps, and the thing rolls over from the console it's working at. He can't quite inhale; his breaths are shallow, stifled. Like his innards are coated with crushed glass.

“You'll need to replace that,” it encourages, in a manner programmed to be reassuring. “You require supplementary oxygen until your lung is fully healed.” 

Kylo tries to lurch out of the cot but pain shards through his side and strangles his breath – what little he has of it. He sinks down on his back again, letting the droid fit the mask over his nose and mouth. 

“If you open that wound I'll have to knock you out and dunk you in the tank again.” 

Kylo startles, craning his neck to locate Hux – because who else would it be, with that sort of remark in that sort of voice?

“Don't speak,” Hux orders, coming into view by the cot and examining Kylo down his nose with the focus of a bird of prey. “You had a punctured lung and a nicked aorta but are recovering nicely. You spent a day in the bacta tank and received a unit and a half of blood. Major Tobin's been formally reprimanded for his poor judgment, but I suspect his self-flagellation is punishment enough. I've already reported to Leader Snoke and Sadni is being... dealt with. Have I answered all your questions?”

Kylo zeroes in on the dressing peeking out from Hux's sleeve, pristine and white against his uniform. “You're hurt.”

“This?” He frowns, lifting his arm like it's an oddity. “I hope you're joking. This will be gone in a week.” 

“My purpose on this mission was to protect you.” 

Hux's expression is... hard to decipher. “Your purpose was to divine the king's thoughts, which you did, handily sparing us from capture. I'm not dead, and neither are you.”

“Were you afraid, Hux?” Kylo feels abruptly feverish, light-headed, as if the bacta had failed and his wound become sour and polluted. He wonders how often Hux is involved in an actual, on-the-ground combat scenario. Kylo can see Hux's thoughts processing, almost digital. There's a scratch on his right temple.

“I was.”

“You concealed it well.”

“It wouldn't have helped to show it. You... performed admirably also.”

“I could've been better. I could've – ”

“Stop.” Hux's face undergoes a number of subtle shifts before adjusting to its customary restraint. He tugs his cuff down to cover the bandage. “Rest. I have duties to attend to. Don't give the medical staff a hard time.” 

“Hux – ”

There's a flash of imagery from him, a fresh memory, as he turns away – Kylo prone on the ground, tangled in his robes, blood staining the snow like spilled wine. The solid heft of his lightsaber, hot in Hux's hand as he searches for the switch – 

Hux pauses, face in profile; sober, mouth shapely, lashes gold against his cheek. “By the way, it's Armitage.” 

Then the visual is gone, and so is he.

 

* * *

 

The First Order's maps of Sadni's subterranean complexes are outdated, originating from the Imperial days. But as Hux and his most trusted officers examine the holo glowing in the center of the conference room he dissects each passage and hall and dwelling, expanding the projection so the planet's rendering all but fills the space. 

“It will take a minimum of resources to track down the king and his entourage,” estimates a colonel, his face washed blue from the holo. “The surface is too cold to sustain them for long, and underground there are only so many places for them to hide. And with the skills of the Force user – ” 

A shrill and piercing spike to the head and Hux recoils, clamping his hand to his forehead. The colonel trails off mid-sentence.

“Is everything well?”

“Yes,” Hux manages, still reeling. “A headache. Excuse me, and please continue.” 

By the time he's escaped the meeting and downed a cold glass of water he's figured out the cause – bizarre and unexpected – of the phantom pain. He activates the standard First Order tracker in Kylo Ren's belt and locates him in an empty training room by the stormtrooper barracks. 

It's utilitarian, designed for virtual simulations, and the lights are stark and sparsely placed. Ren's outer robes are in a heap by the door, and on the concrete floor is their owner, folded over onto himself with his arm cradled against his chest. 

Resentful, wounded eyes track Hux's movements as he sinks down on one knee beside Ren, coat pooling behind him, and reaches for his hand. An angry burn brands Ren's wrist, and he hisses through his teeth as Hux uncurls his fingers to examine the raw, cauterized mark in his palm. 

“My saber,” Ren accuses, casting a baleful glance at the offending hilt lying several feet away. 

“You're lucky you didn't blow your hand off,” Hux replies. “I'm surprised it didn't short out on your sooner.” 

“It didn't.” Ren sounds both offended and embarrassed. “I... it slipped. My side.” 

Hux should scold him for trying to return to training so soon after such a grave injury, but the burn speaks for itself – and could've been much worse – so he says nothing, and reaches out to help Ren up. Ren gingerly takes the proffered hand in his left and lets himself be pulled to his feet with a wince. When Hux's deft hand slips to the small of his back he doesn't protest the assistance. 

“How did you find me?”

“I don't know. I... felt you. Your pain.” Hux presses two fingers two his brow bone. “Here.” 

Kylo looks thrown. “I did not... call for you.”

“Perhaps not intentionally, but here I am. I could ask you how you found your lightsaber. Another Force trick, locating lost objects?”

“It was simple,” Kylo replies haughtily. 

“Simple to ransack my office like a common thief.” 

Kylo's scoff confirms it, and Hux chastises him with only a deep sigh. “Such a brat you are. Come, I'll take you back to sick bay.” Hux pauses on their way out to pile Ren's robes over his arm. “I'm sure they haven't even stripped your cot.” 

“No. Not there.” Ren digs in his heels. “I can't stand it anymore.” 

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Hux steps away to pick up the lightsaber, weighty and still radiating heat. “This self-neglect? You do yourself a disservice by such mistreatment.” 

“Why shouldn't I? What use am I if I allow myself to become weak, and sloppy, and distracted by some trifling... by an injury, by – by feeling, by sentiment...” Ren's chest is heaving now, his mood shifting as fast as an oncoming summer storm. “I cannot allow weakness to slip in through the cracks.”

“You think yourself weak?” Hux suspects this has little to do with Ren's physical injuries. “You are aware you saved both our lives on Sadni. Sentiment didn't weaken you then. Being a _submissive_ didn't weaken you.” 

Ren's head snaps up and he stills, in a way that evokes an animal's hackles rising in threat, but that Hux has come to recognize as him steeling himself. 

“I must never allow it to,” Ren bites back, with the determination of one doing their utmost to convince themselves. “Through strength I gain power. There is no room for frailty, for error – ”

“Enough,” Hux admonishes. Ren gears up for further protest, denial, deflection, but Hux can wield eye contact like a deadly tool and Ren wilts beneath it. “I'm surprised Leader Snoke didn't nip this line of thinking in the bud. I, for one, won't tolerate it.” 

Even this brief dressing down mutes Ren, and though his jaw clenches and his eyes shine with a kaleidoscope of barely constrained emotions, he lets Hux finish. 

“I won't force you to sick-bay but you'll spend the rest of the afternoon in your bed. Do I need to escort you personally to be sure you comply?”

“No,” Ren answers, defeated, putting his robes back on piece by piece as Hux hands them to him. His movements are cautious, punctuated by the occasional flinch, and when he reaches out for the saber Hux doesn't oblige right away, tapping it contemplatively in his other palm before relinquishing it.

“And later tonight,” he adds, as he clips the hilt to Ren's belt for him, “You'll report to my quarters.” 

Confusion mars Ren's features. Hux waits. He doesn't know where Ren's left his helmet but he prefers him without it, likes watching the thoughts pass unchecked across his face. His wariness is obvious, but he swallows it. 

“Yes, sir.” The response is dutiful but sincere, and not for the first time Hux warms to it, to the _willing_ compliance from this menace of a man. Lethal and lovely, such a force; so impressive in his power and yet, in private, so perfectly, addictively submissive. 

A strange thought occurs to Hux, as he leaves: that if he could design Kylo Ren from the ground up he's not sure if he would alter a thing.

 

* * *

 

Hux's furnishings are standard issue, his quarters absent any personal mementos or extraneous décor. From what Kylo can detect, there's little to distinguish it from any other section of the ship. What there is is an unidentifiable serenity that envelops him as he enters, as if an invisible weight's been lifted from him and left behind in the corridor. The air within is the same that runs through the entire ventilation system but it still feels cleaner, purer, knitting him back together from the inside out. 

Hux is on the couch. For once he's not occupied with his datapad. His eyes hone in on Kylo with a kind of clarity, at once relaxed and self-assured. Kylo wonders how long he's just been sitting there; waiting.

“On the floor.” Hux nods downward, directly in front of him. “Right here.” 

Kylo settles on his knees between Hux's, carefully so as not to aggravate his injury, resting his hands flat on his thighs as he does when meditating. Hux scans him, eyes flicking down to his torso.

“Do you feel better?”

“I do.” Kylo's loathe to admit Hux was right, but he wound up sleeping the day away and awoke invigorated, the pain in his side having dissipated to a background soreness. It only hurts when he twists or bends. He's unsure what Hux will have him do tonight but he doesn't relish the return of that pain.

“Close your eyes, Ren.” 

Kylo ducks his head, the outline of his reflection hazy in Hux's polished boot tips as he lets his eyelids drift shut. The lithe symmetry of Hux's silhouette is imprinted there. He doesn't think he'll be well and truly beaten, not in his condition, but perhaps Hux has reached the limit of his patience with him, fed up and done and really going to let him have it – 

Gloved fingertips slide through his hair, applying steady but gentle pressure to his scalp. He prepares for Hux to grab a handful and pull but it doesn't come. Instead the motion is repeated, leisurely but purposeful, combing through his hair until his fingers slid through easily without snagging.

There's a rustle and Kylo waits for some punishment to be applied instead Hux's bare hands are on him, framing either side of his face, thumbs on his cheekbones. 

“You've been so good,” Hux acknowledges in his soft, articulate voice. “So good for me, Kylo.”

He's only ever called him Ren before. Kylo turns his face into Hux's palm. 

“You're very valuable, Kylo. You're a credit to yourself and the Order. You're valuable to – to me.”

Eons seem to have passed since he's been handled so gently; it's a rush, potent and intoxicating, and he lets his head dip forward, supported by Hux's steady, cradling hands. 

“You've never been collared, have you, Kylo?”

“No,” he answers simply, forming the word against Hux's skin. It doesn't occur to him to be evasive.

“Any reason why?” 

“I trust no one enough.” It doesn't seem necessary to lie, either. His eyes are still closed; it feels peaceful, secure, to listen to Hux's questions in this way. “I don't want to be owned.”

“Is that what being collared means to you?” The couch creaks as Hux draws forward onto the edge, knees touching Kylo's shoulders. “We're going to pretend, you and I. You're going to pretend you're wearing my collar. And you tell me what it feels like.” 

Hux's hands slip around Kylo's neck, applying no pressure, just the circling presence of his thumbs and forefingers. Kylo reaches out into his mind without thinking and feels a crest of curiosity, of protective fondness – 

“Ah ah,” Hux warns, sternly but without rancor. “Stay out.” 

_Sorry,_ Kylo mouths, turning his face up so Hux can read the word on his lips. 

His imagination is vivid and it's easy to envision Hux's hands as a collar, though he tries not to linger on its appearance, rather what it feels like to wear such a thing. It's secure, not too tight, neither weighty nor constricting. He lets his mind wander, creating what imagery it will; Hux putting it on him, tickling his hair as he buckles it. Though they may be galaxies apart, it's there, secure, a foundation - a reminder of what he's capable of, of someone who cares for him – not as a tool, as a mechanism, but for _himself_ \- 

One of Hux's thumbs is stroking his Adam's apple, feather light and somehow maddening, and Kylo's hands fly up to cover Hux's. At the contact there's a radiant wash of sensations that aren't his own – he isn't prying but they're flowing in regardless, a fathomless current of affection and concern, of the potential Hux sees in Kylo, how soft and warm Kylo's pulse is under his fingers and how beautiful he looks – 

Kylo can't bear to keep his eyes shut anymore and opens them to see Hux's, heavy-lidded, very close and very green. His expression is focused but absent its customary hard solemnity and it changes the planes of his face entirely. 

Hux leans forward even further, mouth ghosting over Kylo's jaw, murmuring into his ear, “Tell me what it felt like.”

“Safe.” Kylo lets the words fall out before he can censor them. “Loved. Let me show you.” His fingertips dig into the fine bones of the back of Hux's hands as he opens his mind to him. His very atoms are alive, _singing_ for Hux, and the intensity of Hux's gaze crystallizes as he absorbs it.

“Precious boy,” is all he says, and Kylo rises on his knees as Hux hauls him up into a searing kiss. The possessive press of his mouth is electric, the shock of a dead heart jolted to life; Kylo snakes his arms around Hux's neck, a drowning man brought forth from the water, trembling fingers mussing that pristine red hair. 

Hux grips his hips and pulls him up to straddle his lap, bold hands spreading over his lower back. Kylo buries his face in Hux's neck, cheek rubbing on the stiff fabric of his uniform, molding his body to Hux's even though his wound protests. 

“You're already mine,” Hux breathes, and the dark note of sovereignty in his voice registers in the deepest part of Kylo's core. “Aren't you.” 

“Yes,” Kylo confesses into his ear. He says it like a prayer; a promise. Hux's embrace is so fierce, his kiss a sacrament as he tugs Kylo's hair to bring his mouth back to his. Kylo groans into it; a surrender. _"Yes."_

He feels very much like he's being cleansed.

 

 

* * *

 

 


	5. Epilogue

 

* * *

 

The collar is black with scarlet stitching, simple and handsome. Kylo has Hux's permission to wear it as over or under his clothing as he prefers, but he likes it best beneath – this is his, hallowed and not for others' eyes, the leather buttery-soft and reassuring against his skin. 

Besides, everyone knows whose he is. 

At some previous point in his life, that might have bothered him. Now it fills him with pride; with purpose. He likes how the parts in him and the parts in Hux slot together, corresponding cogs turning in opposite but congruous directions. 

Today, Kylo wears the collar above. The black buckle gleams against the high neck of his tunic as he stands with arms folded before the interrogation chair. The hems of his robes are still snow-sodden from his latest expedition to Sadni – and his retrieval of their fugitive. 

Tri Zahz's glare is fiery but his fear broadcasts in strident waves as he tries to discreetly struggle against the restraints. 

“Give me your report, Kylo Ren.” Hux's voice is aloof and business-like, his posture formal. He pays no mind to their prisoner. 

“This individual was discovered in a hidden vault of the treasury.” He appreciates this, what Hux is doing. Kylo had always been one to get down to brass tacks, but he understands how this is an additional clever torment for Zahz, witnessing himself being discussed in such clinical terms. Hux won't even acknowledge him. 

“I and two squads of stormtroopers dispatched his personal guard and took him into custody,” Kylo continues. Hux steps away from him now, a consummate portrait of casual indifference as he meanders in a wide, deliberate circle around the interrogation room. “Upon securing the palace we installed a garrison to maintain control until the First Order brings in personnel to evaluate the mines and handle the population – ”

“You can't think you'll get away with treating a head of state like this!” Zahz interrupts with artificial bravado. His gruffness is a shoddy mask for his panic, whites of his eyes showing as he tries to track Hux's movements. “You cannot simply take over a planet, do what you will – ”

From behind the chair, Hux emits an unimpressed sigh, his first sign of recognition towards the prisoner. “You overestimate how much the galaxy cares about your rock.” 

He sidesteps the chair and heads to the exit, pausing next to Kylo. One gloved hands curves over his bicep, then glides up over his shoulder to toy with the tiny disc hanging from the collar's D ring. It tinkles innocently, its flat surfaces glinting in the light. The initials are too small for Zahz to read from this distance, but the gesture says more than _A.H._ could.

“When you're finished,” Hux says, with a disdainful flick of his eyes to Zahz, “I expect your further report promptly. In my quarters, if you will.”

“Yes, sir,” Kylo murmurs, satisfaction rippling through the vocoder. 

“You have no jurisdiction, General,” Zahz protests, a last feeble show of bravery. He wriggles as Kylo moves behind him, tightening the bonds. “You cannot – what gives you the right – ”

“You don't betray men like me.” Over the top of Zahz's head, Hux's mouth angles up in a smile, shared only with Kylo. It's subtle, and it's perfect, and only one close to Hux could see the affection in it. “Or men like him.”

 

* * *

 


End file.
